


The Komarran Gambit

by anstaar



Series: what we can change [3]
Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Ableism, Complicated Relationships, Empires and Oligarchies, Family Dynamics, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Mother-Son Relationship, Multi, Power Dynamics, complications of conquered planets, the conscience of emperors, the nature and abuse of power, the past you bring with you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:35:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22398673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anstaar/pseuds/anstaar
Summary: “Absolute power has its limits,” Lord Vorkosigan says, “I heard you wrote a book on that very subject.”(In which Duv Galeni fights for the future of Komarr, the Emperor contemplates several most impolitic affairs, Lady Vorbarra rides out and planetary politics get galactic. Set about six years after 'Countdown'.)
Series: what we can change [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1595479
Comments: 128
Kudos: 46





	1. Set Piece

**Author's Note:**

> 'Sergyar' is called 'Doroteyar' in this universe. Next chapter is probably Gregor POV.
> 
> Some of Duv's thoughts on teaching are borrowed from stories an old Professor mine used to tell about teaching in the Soviet Union in the '90s.

Six years ago, Duv Galeni had been trying to pond the concept of histography into the heads of Barrayaran students who tended to regard with great suspicion the suggestion that they should interrogate history instead of simply recite what they had learned in their textbooks. Ten years before that, he had still been wearing his name like a coat that didn’t quite fit, eyes still looking for places where someone could linger out of mind or use as cover. Before that – back it goes, and so. Remember. Let it go. 

Still, _today_ Captain Duv Galeni is a member of the Barrayaran Imperial Service, a minor cog in the machine that hopes one day to be a man to watch for reasons other than fear of sudden reversal to terrorism, or just general foreignness. He bears the subtle looks with a dry irony as he sees them equally directed at other Komarrans. As if most of the few boys who’ve made it through the Academy would be a threat, unless they’re made into one. Still, the Emperor’s integration scheme has gotten them this far, he’s planning on helping to keep dragging it forward. Even if ‘this far’ sometimes means reflecting that there are days where being a soldier reminds him more of his time as a teacher then as a terrorist. 

Days with Lieutenant Lord Ivan Vorpatril, for one, almost inevitably drag up memories of old students. He’d been unsure of the young man when he’d first been assigned to his office, but it hadn’t taken him long to realize that Ivan is simply almost exactly what he seems, Duv’s paranoid assumptions of the first days to the contrary. Making assumptions is a dangerous quality in a historian. 

Lieutenant Vorpatril’s open, handsome face and cheerful disposition don’t hide a sharp intellect, they can merely help distract from the fact he’s often too lazy to use it properly. That’s likely an unfair assessment. Ivan is simply content in a way that’s utterly foreign to Duv. He puts in his time at work, and then leaves, mostly remembering to return on time and accepts the deserved reprimands the few times he’s forgotten without any hint of the mutter complaints about Komarrans that some like to pull out. He’s proud of his uniform but doesn’t see any reason to be consumed by work. He does have ambitions but his desire to join the diplomatic core, like his father, is the sort of ambition that involves growing into the job instead of trying to hunt it down. 

A diplomatic officer like his father before him. And like his great grandfather before him. 

There are days when the desire to shake Vorpatril comes less from his resemblance to blithe undergrads across the planet and more from some sudden madness at remembering again that his junior officer is the great grandson of one of the men Duv had argued had some of the greatest impact on the Imperial Service, despite sometimes being considered an outsider to it. Vorpatril’s father _remembers_ the man, Duv had just managed not to twitch at a stray remark about ‘a funny story m’father was telling about his grandfather’. Heroic acts of control, some practice for a position with more real meaning. 

Right now, Duv just puts his time in, paying his dues in the hope of being able to request a post off Barrayar. It’s not too grand to dream of, and it’s something to make him feel like he’s moving forward instead of sinking. Besides, Duv tries to find some new gain in every posting and serving as first-hand witness to the social habits of the high Vor is the sort of thing some social anthropologists would kill for. They _could_ kill for the chance, if they took his route. He had written plenty on the role of the soldier in Barrayar society, though he hadn’t provoked many of those who’d read his thesis to march over and sign up. 

Lieutenant Vorpatril might occasionally be nearly as oblivious as he acts, but that’s still a far way from being oblivious enough to bring up the subject of family to a Komarran superior. Or, perhaps, he just can’t imagine Duv existing outside the realm of his title. Captain or Professor. But when given the chance to talk, Vorpatril’s stories are littered with mentions of his family and some of the most important people in Barrayaran society, without any sense that those might not be one and the same to some. 

There’s Ivan’s eagerness to see his parents after their trip away from home, and how he supposes they might both leave more often now that his youngest siblings are older (Lord Padma and Lady Alys had been chosen to represent Barrayar on Cetaganda for the Empresses’ funeral, a choice that must have been long debated considering the current uneasy business in the Hegen hub). Ivan’s talk about what best to put in a care package for ‘the twins’, asking what he had missed at the Academy (high Vor Ladies at the Imperial Service Academy, causing a stir all their own after the production of their birth). His complaints about ‘the terrors’ (who clearly can get anything they want from their older brother) and having to field talks of what they’ve been up to a school (full of the scions of other great Vor families, Duv might one day walk into the Komarran Affairs building and find himself looking at Commodore Vor-Paste-Eater). And, of course, stories where ‘Sonya’ was always there, before she picked up her ‘strange’ interest in politics, the sister who’d once stolen his Vorthalia the Bold figures for a tea party, forever changing them, and also the woman who many still assume could become Empress of Barrayar. By the time Duv had realized just who the ‘Miles’ (said with the tenor of someone speaking only of a childhood friend and cousin) is in Ivan’s fretting over his sister’s refusal to tell him if they’re actually dating or not, he would like to claim to be used to it all. At least Ivan likely believes the blandness with which Duv reminds him they have actual work to do hides nothing but ironic commentary. 

Duv doesn’t remember his aunt. He doesn’t remember Komarr Before (he doesn’t remember the father of Before that his mother sometimes spoke of and his brother never did). He had listened to his father’s stories and followed orders and decided he cared more about the deaths he saw than the metaphors his father had enjoyed, but it had taken much longer to realize that in a different life, he might have held a lot more in common with the young Vor lordlings that made him grit his teeth as he focused on achieving his aims than the ‘proles’ they grouped him in when thinking on him as anything other than Komarran. 

David Galen, one of _those_ Galens, just as much destined for politics and power as any of the Vor snobs, except for a life that taught him that destiny was an illusion. Would David had been interested in history? He doubts his father would have encouraged it, the old Komarr hadn’t considered a Professor of humanities that much more impressive than it’s seen on Barrayar. Not practical enough for either planet, to Duv’s dark amusement. 

‘One share, one vote’ and the Galen family had many shares. 

It had been ugly to realize, beyond the first vicious realization of the disgust he feels at blood shed in the cause of the People as well as well as by the Oppressors, that the world Ser Galen had spoken of so forcefully had been one where he had been a ruler of people. His rage hadn’t been at being another Komarran beaten unfairly in the street, but at being _just_ one of the People he had spoken of in capital letters. Duv has met a lot of rebels. He’s met a lot of Vor lords who feel like they should have something better because of their name. He had questioned his father’s notion of justice, but it had been harder to question the nature of the loss that had twisted him so completely. 

That anger hadn’t been completely fair. Duv is sure that his father had loved his Aunt as more than a martyr to rally to. He knows, he _saw_ the crimes committed against Komarrans, and even if he doesn’t see a nobility in his father’s actions, he doesn’t think he’d have seen something better if Ser Galen had worked to let the Galen family flourish as much as it could under Barrayaran rule instead spending it on opposing them. 

Duv knows what it is to be a Komarran on a conquered planet. To be a Komarran ‘example’ on Barrayar. He has a true passion for Barrayaran history, but there were days when he couldn’t forget that there’s a reason that he couldn’t bring that passion to the history of his own planet. There is much to be proud of on Komarr. There’s much that could be better. He’d known before his advisors had carefully (or bluntly, in the case of the teachers he preferred) let him know there were topics it was wiser to avoid if he wished to get published. He writes about the modernization of Barrayar, it’s paradoxes and complicities. He writes about soldiers. He writes with a Barrayaran name. His father would probably accuse him of forgetting if he was there to see it, but Duv remembers in every signature. 

Maybe he still believes in what his father had preached. A better Komarr. He just has a different definition of ‘better’ and ‘free’. His father would sacrifice anyone, even himself, for Komarr’s future. Duv fights just as hard for it, even knowing that getting there means dragging Barrayar forward too. He likes to think that his fight has a chance of a far truer success. Komarr is a planet for sensible people, for people ready to plan for a world that won’t exist until after generations of hard work still to come. Duv Galeni is a Barrayaran, but that doesn’t have to mean being less Komarran. 

Still, he remembers his old name, and the man he never was, and usually finds an extra inch of patience for a well-meaning oblivious Vor Lord, which doesn’t stop Ivan from frequently hitting his limits. 

Vorpatril gives him his most cheerful smile, the one that somehow manages to both provoke a desire to strangle him and prevent Duv from doing so at the same time. He clearly doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with the fact that his office has been invaded by a pair of extremely non-regulation civilians. 

Even without the picture on Ivan’s desk (and in various, more public, photos) the tall, dark haired woman looks enough like her brother that she would be immediately recognizable. Luckily, that resemblance means her attractiveness leaves him more suspicious than moved. She’s dressed in a specific type of the latest fashions likely with the same instinctive understanding of the meaning of every choice as Ivan out of uniform, even if there’s a bit more conscious thought than her brother puts into ‘just knowing’ what’s right and proper. Despite being much taller, even without the heels he eyes warily, she sill manages to appear to be gracing the arm of the even more alarming visitor without a tinge of awkwardness. 

Lord Vorkosigan smirks at Duv, ignoring the bickering siblings and Vorpatril’s sudden recollection that he has some sort of duty. 

“Captain Galeni, my sister, Sonya, who is _supposed_ to be on Doroteyar, and not wandering about without an armsman.” 

Sonya ignores the brotherly scowl with the ease of long practice, granting Duv a dangerously dazzling smile. “A pleasure to meet you at last, Captain Galeni. Ivan’s some almost sensible things lately, it’s good to see where he’s been getting them from.” She turns a much less dazzling look on Ivan. “I _told_ you I was going to be back this week, like I would miss papa, it’s not my fault if you don’t look at your calendar.” She sniffs. “And it’s not like I’m wandering the halls of likely the safest place on Barrayar alone, Miles makes a much more entertaining escort than you. He knows a lot about this history of this building.” Another warning sign, if Ivan has a clue of Galeni’s past, Duv will eat his hat. 

But Vorpatril has remembered the other half of the introductions. “Right, and this is Miles. Lord Vorkosigan, that is.” 

“Thank you, Ivan.” Duv would feel some sympathy with the sardonic resignation Ivan shakes off without apparently noticing, if he hadn’t found himself already dislike Lord Vorkosigan, more so because of the knowing look that suggests the younger man has guessed his opinion and finds it amusing. 

Lord Vorkosigan. Son of the Prime Minister Count Vorkosigan. Assistant social secretory to the Emperor, in an astonishing display of nepotism, even for the Vor. Said by some to be an advisor to the Emperor, despite his age and the not-quite-public but _known_ split between the Emperor and his Prime Minister. Some might whisper about mutants, but young men with reason for grudges and too much power are far more dangerous than Barrayars fear of mutation. And the look in Lord Vorkosigan’s eyes is too familiar for him not to recognize the danger, after all, Duv sees it in the mirror every morning.


	2. benko gambit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Gregor has a long day at the office, and Aral Vorkosigan doesn't appreciate being a conservative

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> takes place slightly before the previous chapter, next up is Karen POV, to round out the first chapters of the three POVs

“What _did_ you say to dad? He looked properly angry this time.” Miles asks from where he appears to be artfully draped over a sofa. His legs must be troubling him again, not the time to bring it up.

Gregor sighs, slumping on the couch next to him. It’s not more comfortable than his usual perfect posture, but it helps relieve feelings. “We were talking about the New Counts.”

“Yesss?” The expectant look doesn’t change. 

“I said something along the lines that I’m proposing an amendment, not having the Counts that disagree with me shot.”

“ _Gregor_.” Miles jolts upright, staring at him. 

“I know. I know.” It’s not the sort of thing the Emperor can afford to say to anyone, it’s not something he _should_ say to Aral Vorkosigan. He runs a hand through his hair, pulling at the end. Everyone knows there’s a certain distance between the Emperor and his Prime Minister, though not the sort that had gone well for anyone who’s thought that they could exploit it, but even as they disagree, Gregor thinks there’s usually a degree of respect to go with the frustration. This one is just his fault. 

Miles shakes his head, cultivated cool still lost to shock. “I thought we agreed _I’m_ the one who doesn’t get enough sleep and offends people by not thinking.” His assessment turns towards concern. “Speaking of, when was the last time you slept? I know Henri never remembers appointment blocks when he thinks he has something and even I’ve been getting reports about Cetaganda, which can only mean an impressive overthrow. Plus, the glorious Grand Review. Plus, your normal reports. Plus, that damned conference… I do look at your calendar, you know.” 

Gregor rubs his eyes. “Enough sleep that there’s no excuse. Not that there would be one even if I’d gone without for a few weeks.”

“After a few weeks, you likely wouldn’t be coherent enough to say anything.” 

“A new strategy to consider.” 

“How long until Count Vortrifrani?” 

“A day.”

Gregor opens his eyes to glare at Miles, who gives him an unrepentant look in return. 

“Do you really need proof that you’re in not state to deal with him? You’re seeing Count Vorbretten in a few spans. There’s a little extra time due to the… quicker than expected conclusion to your discussion with the Prime Minister. Hopefully René doesn’t see him on his way in, one look and he’d be struck down.” 

“You’re a terrible social secretary. What am I supposed to say to Vortrifrani?”

“It’s not my fault I was hired for my good looks. Tell him something that comes to you after a good night’s sleep. Or just blame me. Say I made a mix-up and you’re thinking of tossing me out a window to make up for my failure. That could get him in a good mood.”

Gregor doesn’t smile, but Miles is probably right that he’s not fit to deal with self-proclaimed ‘straightforward’ leader of the Conservative faction. Putting him off will add another half-hour at least to the huffing, but he’s not going to gain the man’s approval. He can’t even do more than hope that Miles’ self-deprecating comment isn’t a sign of anything other than his terrible sense of humor. 

There’s too much to do to get things ready, and most of the people Gregor truly trusts are already in crisis mode. He likes to think he knows when to delegate, but there are things that need the Emperor’s involvement, and an unfortunate shortage of people he can turn to that he wouldn’t be dragging away from something more important. 

“Damn Cetagandans,” Miles says, thoughts matching Gregor’s, though probably only for a moment before leaping off into wild new directions. He’s staring off into space, considering who knows what. He looks tired, too, though not to the point of fraying. Miles seems to get more energetic the more things pile on. An opportunity to avoid reflection. 

Miles is, by most metrics, a terrible social secretary, even though he’s quite good at the work. He’s too young to have the connections or respect. He wants his actions recognized too much too slide into the background. He’s a point of discomfort for many just by existing and he’s developed a delight in making them more uncomfortable. Gregor isn’t sure there’s a social situation he’s eased instead of escalated. But he’s loyal to Gregor. He _wants_ to serve, and he brings all his (slightly twisted) brilliance to whatever Gregor asks of him. 

Gregor sometimes feels guilty about the whole thing. He knows how much Miles wanted the military, wanted anything that would let him distinguish himself. He knows that he never wanted to be trapped. There’s so much he could do. But Gregor needs him. He needs someone he can trust to follow him, while blazing new trails at the same time. He needs someone to see him as Gregor instead of the Emperor. It’s Miles’ skill at his work and the times that he seems to enjoy all the ever present problems that helps stave off the guilt at the selfishness of having asked him, knowing that he could never say no to his Emperor, even with Gregor asking.

At least Gregor doesn’t have to feel any guilt about tearing a family apart with politics. Whatever his Prime Minister thinks of him, he seems to hold only fond pride for his son, even when lecturing him on appropriate protocol. And Miles occasionally complained that Aunt Cordelia has said she might make Gregor her favorite instead. Though that’s not something she’s like to say for a while after today. Control. He has to stay in control of himself, first principles. 

Gregor thinks that Prime Minister Vorkosigan had assumed that Gregor had taken the first argument they’d had on Gregor’s choices as Emperor more to heart than he had. Despite what he might think now, Gregor _does_ keep it in mind. 

Gregor had wanted a whole new start. He’d wanted them to open up the achieves, offer up apologizes, push through regulations and standardizations. The then still Lord Vorkosigan had not. Looking back, with the distance of years to cool his emotions, Gregor can understand his Prime Minster far more fairly. He had been right to point out the limits of his power, and the likely consequences if he tried to push through his ideas with only the weight of the Emperor’s voice. 

_“It only takes on person to disobey._

Gregor still remembers the look on Aral’s face when he’d asked his Prime Minister if he would be the man to refuse his Emperor’s orders. It had been enough to snap him out of his temper, perhaps saving either of them from saying something that would’ve led to an even deeper rift. He knows his Prime Minister’s loyalty; he shows it every time he tells Gregor what he knows his Emperor doesn’t want to hear. Gregor has built up his own men, but he hopes most of the ones he’s chosen have at least a fraction of that integrity. That way of reminding him he has to be a better person. 

Still, just because Gregor accepts that his power rests on the cooperation he has to extract from his military and Counts and ministries and people – that just meant accepting that it was foolish to try to do everything at once and expecting it to do anything. Lasting change requires time, and wider support then he’d had when he’d just taken his seat. He wants things to be better, not fling themselves backwards in reaction to his attempts to push forward. His Prime Minister had been relieved. After all, in the end, they do both share an ultimate dream for Barrayar. That had been before he’d seen Gregor’s ideas for what constituted a proper amount of time, and an acceptable amount of pushing. 

He suspects that Count Vorkosigan doesn’t appreciate finding himself in the position of the conservative, trying to get new ideas slowed down. It’s not a fair assessment of his politics, just his desire to keep them safe. Gregor tries to remember that, on the days when their talks are at their most frustrating, when he doesn’t, well, he isn’t the only one who says things that are regretted later, but that doesn’t balance it out when he does. 

The worrying reports from Cetaganda. The constant trouble of Komarr. The impressive disasters that Doroteyar can produce. The endless dangers of Barrayaran politics. There’s much that needs to be attended to without adding the growing divides within the Council of Counts and the struggles of the Ministries as a result of his agenda. And, of course, the conference. The moment Gregor has been waiting for, the choice he hasn’t back down on. If other proclamations have stirred up trouble, this is going to be a storm that might overturn them. No matter what they talk of, that fear always adds an edge. 

Gregor has to trust that he’s done enough that they can weather it – as long as they move quickly enough. The Emperor’s Word. The Emperor’s responsibility. He’s done his best to live that, putting his name to the things he believes in. He doesn’t know if it’s enough for the people to think they know Emperor Gregor, but if he doesn’t act now, he’ll betray what he’s tried to make that word mean. It doesn’t matter that there will be other times, it matters if he makes a choice to compromise at this moment. He can’t live with that. 

_Will you be able to live with the lives that could be lost to war?_ He shakes his head again, trying to focus. 

“A good social secretary would write out an apology.”

Miles gives him a derisive look. “So, you’ve decided you want dad to actually resign this time? I’ve seen the list of possible replacements; I don’t think Aunt Kareen would be pleased.” 

Gregor winces. “Must you?”

“Well –” Miles reply is cut off by a low note, and he cuts his teasing short to check his message. “Ha. Got him. I don’t know if it’s a shame or lucky for everyone that you and Sonya refuse to be within six meters of each other without a party in between.” Miles, unfortunately, is completely unembarrassed by any of the rumors about his relationship with the oldest of Lady Alys’ daughters. 

“Do I want to know or is this one of those situations where I’ll find out what orders I gave you later.”

Miles waves airily, as if he hasn’t used the far from accurate legal maximum of ‘better to ask permission’ with regularity, and not _always_ to best benefit. “This is just making good on an old order. You’ll love it. My early birthday present for you, better than a bag of gold.” 

“ _Miles_.”

“I promise, Sire, there’s nothing you have to worry about.” At least he means it, though that doesn’t always mean he’s right. Gregor tries to calculate whether Sonya Vorpatril’s part in contributing to the plan means he should worry more or less, but he can’t settle on the numbers. 

Miles stands, shifting slightly – after the side-effects of the last pain medication he’d been on, Gregor understands his wariness, but he should speak to someone – reaching over to pat Gregor on the shoulder. 

“It will all work out. Go. Drink the coffee Armsman Yorik is bringing up with pastries. Let René be dazzled by getting to be in your presence and get someone else to take notes on what he’s picked up around town. Then take a nap, if Uncle Padma had something new, you know he wouldn’t wait until you were done talking to the Conservatives.” 

“The ones I’m not talking to because you changed my schedule. Go, tell me about your scheme _before_ it starts getting out of control – and stop giving orders to your Emperor. We should have insisted you go to lessons on the chain of command.” 

Miles laughs as he leaves. Gregor tries not to brood on what apology he might be able to make. He can’t forget, but he can’t let himself get consumed by his mistakes, either. Being consumed by failure is a sure recipe to fail again. He needs to think about the future. The only way to repay what he’s been given is to make good. 

He remembers the farce Miles had orchestrated around the Vordrozda affair. Perhaps he should have asked for more details. Proof that there will be no blood sacrifices. However amusing they might be. And he forgot to tell him to stop writing letters to Empress Mother Lady Vorbarra in his hand whenever he thought that Gregor should call. And he needs a politic way to get Armsman Yorik to stop trying to feed him, one that wouldn’t require pointing out he isn’t eight years old anymore. And damn Cetagandan. 

He tips his head back to look at the portrait of Emperor Ezar. Portraits of old Emperors are an infestation that can’t properly be fought. Gregor knows where and when to accept a lost fight. 

_To think anyone wants the job_. 

He doesn’t say anything out loud. Better not to worry Imperial Security with suggestions their Emperor is going crazy, Simon Illyan has enough on his plate as it is.


	3. caro-kann defense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kareen steps out into the universe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thoughts on Kareen/Serg, and Serg's general treatment of women. Also some of the implications of Ezar's bloody politics of power. Plus some sort of victim blaming of herself from Kareen.

Princess-Dowager Lady Kareen Vorbarra, mother of the Emperor, readjusts her too large sunglasses. They had been a gift from Reena Koudelka, who had been so pleased to get her namesake a gift she hadn’t seen anyone get her first. Captain Koudelka had looked mildly mortified, but Kareen and Drou had shared a smile over the proud six-year-olds head before Kareen had offered her serious thanks. 

That had been years ago now, of course, and young Kareen, though still devastatingly young to Kareen’s eyes, is a growing adolescent, far brighter and more confident than Kareen had been at that age. Perhaps more than she is even now, too. It’s been too long since she’s really seen Drou, and Rena had still been off on Beta Colony her last visit, to the not entirely quiet jealousy of her younger sisters. She should see if any of them would like the chance to go. Any stubbornness about money in most areas is elevated by an understanding of the need to escape. Martya and Olivia are around the age of Lady Alys’ youngest two, so perhaps a word to her is in order too. She doesn’t think there are any hard feelings over the twins’ choice to apply to the Academy, which, really, was more Miles’ fault than Drou’s. 

And Gregor’s, of course. 

Not that any of them would blame the Emperor out loud, even now. Some scars run deep. The careful absence of Lord Padma Vorpatril from most of their conversations is proof of that. What a world to leave their children. What a world their children were making. Not the time to think on that. 

For the first time she can remember, Kareen is on holiday. She doesn’t think security would have gone along – well, not happily, but with only minor levels of reflectance for them – with Cordelia and her son’s plot if they had known how things would blow up, but if they all waited to be sure there would be no crisis in her absence… Well, that’s why it had required the combined powers of a multiple people to make her go in the first place. 

_You deserve to travel_ , Gregor had said, and who was she to deny her Emperor when he offered her what he couldn’t have himself. 

He was a man grown, old enough to know that he doesn’t have to stand on his own, and she won’t always be with him. He has his Prime Minster and Captain Illyan and his loyal security team; there’s Lady Filippa and Lady Alys and Lord Padma and Hilaire and Cordelia. There’s even and always Miles, who cares a lot more about his job than he admits to most, and so Cordelia says talks to Kareen more than his mother even when they’re not on the same planet. She trusts Gregor, and his people. She _can_ let go, even if she counts how many jump points she travels away from Barrayar. 

She’s glad she’d agreed to go. As unhappy as her guards are with this newest trouble from Cetaganda, she feels freer than she has – ever, perhaps. Except from those grey moments where she had the freedom that came from not caring, and that isn’t a freedom she craves. Cordelia had made jokes about a Grand Tour in the letters from where she appears to be enjoying her experience as guardian for two pre-teen girls. Perhaps she’s thinking of the daughters she didn’t have. The daughters she still might have. Never on Barrayar, Cordelia had told her once, but that might not be an issue much longer. No. Not something she’s thinking of. 

Kareen had smiled at the jokes, a Grand Tour of the universe, or, at least, of some of the safer parts of it. She’s made brief stops and tours of Komarr and Doroteyar before (both brief if for different reasons) but it’s different to travel as – well, clearly not _no one_ , but no one more special than any other lady who can chose to travel with a few guards. Just brief stops to recover on Escobar and Kline Station then longer visits to Beta Colony and among the peaceful planets heading towards in a leisurely fashion Earth, far away from the Hegen Hub and the Cetagandan Empire (and Barrayar). She’s just Kareen, and she makes sure to take care for her security’s sake, but takes in all the tourist stops that she can, collecting images and stories for her son. 

She’s glad he insisted. Glad that she had left him with a kiss and her love, free from any tension. Even if she can only admit the anger far away from Barrayar. She doesn’t want to be angry, and not just because Gregor always knows, and she knows it bites deep.

Things were always going to be different after he became Emperor. Kareen thinks she was less surprised than now-Count Vorkosigan had been at the direction Gregor had devoted himself too, but she’s discovered a certain new sympathy with Aral Vorkosigan that goes beyond their shared desire to protect Gregor, or maybe it’s just a new facet of it. 

She’s confident that Gregor is nothing like Serg. Nothing like the man she feels free to think of as not being his father, with how little he saw him. Sometimes, as she would have never suspected when he was growing up, she worries that that he isn’t enough like Ezar Vorbarra. Even with the distance of more than twenty-years, Kareen isn’t sure what Serg was. Incompetent and cruel, paranoid and grasping, but like a child who had never had to learn to think of others. Ezar had made sweeping changes to Barrayar. Serg had unformed dreams of power, Ezar had used it. She knows Gregor, but she had never known Ezar the man as she’d known the Emperor. 

Kareen had been born in the reign of Emperor Ezar, but as young as she’d been in the ‘tumultuous first few years’, as the history books put it, she remembers the tensions lasting far longer than they carefully record. Ezar had ruled like the guerilla fighter he’d been. He struck unexpectedly and fiercely. He pitted his enemies against each other. And he always acted without hesitation, no matter how ruthless the action. It had let him survive remaking the world. No one doubted that Ezar Vorbarra would do whatever he considered necessary. 

Kareen’s father used to tell some of the stories that spread about what Ezar Vorbarra had done during the Cetagandan invasion. Knowing what she does now, Kareen doesn’t think the bloody stories were told with approval, though her mother had responded with cool words of praise. And so debates on the nature of the Emperor were conducted in those days, where no where was safe to speak directly and she dreamed of Cetagandan heads without tongues. 

Gregor wants to remake society, but he doesn’t have his grandfather’s belief in the bloody practicality needed to get the Vor in line. She still remembers the young Lord Aubin Vortienne starving in the square as a message to his parents. She doesn’t know how many people believed the charges, though no one had spoken against them. The Emperor had made no move against the Count, or even his heir, nothing that had exceeded the privileges of the Count that Emperors were supposed to respect, but they had all understood. There was one law for all, and that law was the Emperor’s word.

It wasn’t just that, she knows. He had truly held to account many Counts that needed to be. There was something far more like law than had been true before for anyone without money and power to share. Non-Vor had a chance to rise because they deserved it, without the limits and expectations of patronage. Instead of a world torn between Counts trying to hold the biggest stick, they had formed an empire because everyone knew it was in the hands of Ezar. And even though there had been plenty who had turned on him as soon as it looked like his hands were weakening, none of them could turn Barrayar back to what it was. You can’t go back. 

Gregor wants to continue to remake their world, but he doesn’t want to make it in blood. People are wary of the ImpSec, but there isn’t a Political Officer on every ship. Gregor wants the law to be fair, Ezar would never let the son of Count Vorkosigan to face punishment for dueling. Gregor knows how to bend, but there are times Kareen isn’t sure whether she worries that he’ll bend too much or drawn his line too firmly. She wants her son to live. She wants him to be a good man. She wants him to be a good emperor. She doesn’t know if it’s possible to be the last two and survive. 

Gregor is her son. She was the one who taught him what it means to be a Vor, what it _should_ mean. She was the one who showed him social strategies but wanted him to hold onto his integrity. She was the one who thought of all the compromises she had made and thought that a son could be stronger. Her grandmother had told her that a woman’s honor is in her husband and children, a man’s honor is his own. She could imagine Cordelia’s face if she shared that story, but Kareen suspects that she had believed in her grandmother’s words. Perhaps she still does. 

Her husband’s shame is her shame. There are things that should be kept private. Knowing what sort of creature someone was doesn’t mean actually speaking of it. That had still been true in Emperor Ezar’s world. She had tried to teach her son that there were other ways. That rank is no excuse and crimes should not be granted the acceptance of silence. Gregor had listened, Kareen isn’t sure if she had. There was nothing she could’ve done to control Serg. A wife isn’t meant to control a man, but to support and temper him. She is the gentle touch. A reminder of what he needs – what he fights - to protect. 

And Serg _had_ turned to her. In the beginning, and even after. He’d seen her as a figure to support him, and she had seen herself as the same. As wife to the crown prince in a court without an empress, she had the _simple_ task of keeping an eye on the social scene of the capital, a minor thing compared to her more important role in providing her husband with an heir and holding his confidences. Vorrutyer had been happy to take over the second role as Serg’s violence had grown from lashing out to his deep conviction that she was loyal to his father. But while he might have been happy share his fears that everyone was against him with a man that would agree with his concerns instead of a wife who had been stupid enough to think that he wanted reassurance or support instead, she thinks there are some things that only she was told. 

Serg would’ve never told another man that he had once sat outside his mother’s room for three days in desperate hope of just seeing her. He wouldn’t have talked about the younger siblings he’d never had, the ones he hoped for his son. Even his frustration at what others might think of him couldn’t be expressed in the same words. It wouldn’t be done. Just as it was done to tell her that, even while keeping the actual details of his days. That was outside her sphere, a wife is not killed for a husband’s treason. She had understood that Serg, the one who had been raised in the same world she had been. She doesn’t think she had liked him, not truly, but she’s never been able to tell Cordelia that so much of what she would already label unacceptable had simply been expected. Any woman Kareen might have been close enough to tell in those days knew that as well as she did. 

The shock to them would have been where Serg blurred the lines. _A man might hurt a whore, but it’s quite another thing to direct that level of violence at his wife._ She thinks Negri had likely been speaking with a degree of sarcasm, but she knows that there were many who would have spoken those words without a hint of irony. A prince might be expected to want to usurp his father, and have tension with his own heir in time, but to hurt the chance of _having_ an heir – that was a true sign of madness. A man proves himself in the existence of sons. 

Ges Vorrutyer had brought out the worst qualities in Serg, nurtured them for his own purpose and enjoyment. But Kareen Vorbarra had failed to bring out the best. A sick sort of competition, where decades after both their deaths she still holds on to what she had, even though she doesn’t want it. secrets that were never to be told. But she had told them. She had spoken to Gregor, because he deserved the truth, because they were free of him. It wasn’t like one of the stories from the Time of Isolation, of a son set against father over the matter of his mother, who was truly just a metaphor for which of them should protect the family and their honor – in an admittedly oedipal fashion. She knows he’d thought of those stories when she’d told him about Vordarian. 

They’re free of the Time of Isolation, but Gregor might not be wrong in thinking they’re not completely free of Serg. Sometimes Kareen had taken a bit of pleasure in seeing Serg erased from even his minor place in history, knowing how much he would hate that. Mostly, she had never thought of it. It is simply how things are. How things were. Vorbarra family secrets are Barrayar family secrets, and the age of keeping the worst concealed didn’t improve anything. It’s not even truly secret, if you leave Barrayar. But so many still never leave Barrayar. 

She can understand her son. She can be proud of him, for all she worries, but she couldn’t find the words to agree to his plan, even if she hadn’t supported Vorkosigan’s point, either. It seems as if the old silence never truly went away, even when she’d told herself it had held too many dangers to the future to hold onto. She doesn’t think Gregor understands, though he had never tried to push her into supporting him. But she had wanted a world where he couldn’t understand, and he does understand that the world that shaped him isn’t the same as Barrayar in its entirety. 

Gregor had turned to people who understood him, and she hadn’t fought as she should against the gift of travel. She tells herself that by the time she returns, things will be better. She’ll find what she needs to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Duv doesn't want to audition for his role as the Komarran friend and does want to see family letters 
> 
> since they come up in reference a few times: some notes on families and ages  
> Vorpatrils: Ivan is 22 (as is Miles), Sonia 20, Lisa & Lena are 17 (the twins who served as sign of high Vor use of uterine replicator technology at birth and now want to serve the military), Maren is 14 and Zoya is 13  
> Koudelkas: young Karen is ~16, Martya is 14, Olivia is 12/13 and Delia is 10
> 
> also Kareen's ended up with the story line that's going to be most action/adventure, the curse of going on holiday


	4. benoni defense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Duv gets dinner with a few members of the Vorpatril-Vorkosigan family

The crime is conspiracy, Duv has no doubt about that, the only question is the extent of Ivan’s role in the plot. He certainly looks innocent enough, even while also slightly, silently apologetic, but Duv admits that he might be biased there by the knowledge that he has to continue to work with Ivan, while he’ll hopefully escape the others after this meal. 

There’s no regulation against getting dinner out, or even lunch though most stick to the gloomy cafeteria for sake of ease and paranoia. Considering how much of the written (and, often more importantly, unwritten) regulations still lean towards an approval of Vor supported nepotism, it’s more likely there’s something that would insist on him going along beyond Ivan’s half-begging whispers claiming that this is the only way to get rid of their unwanted (by Duv, at least) guests. There’s even a part of Duv that’s interested in a debate of inheritance practices, or as it is in this company, a well-trod family discussion. 

“You are not older,” Ivan says indignantly, beet waving on the end of his fork.

“I came into the world first.”

“ _Technically_.”

Lord Vorkosigan smirks. “The soltoxin poisoning has proved occasionally detrimental over the years, but it means I came into the world before you, _technically_ , so I can’t say there have been no upsides.”

Ivan rolls his eyes, almost in unison with Lady Sonia who cuts in with her own contribution. 

“None of which matters if the Count chooses a horse.” 

“If the Count can _argue_ for the horse,” her brother adds.

Vorkosigan props his chin on a hand, always ready to abandon his meal a little long. “Raising the important question of whether a Vor lord’s horse is also a lord. A question that could hold many implications for the battlefields, if we used horses still.”

Lady Sonia scoffs, “If the horse was female than people would say it holds many possible implications, but the ultimate question would be answered the same way, the emperor does what he wants.

“No always,” Vorkosigan says.

Ivan stabs another beet. “Do we know the horse wasn’t female? You’re the horse one Miles, how does it look in the pictures? Have you taken a good look?”

The three are familiar enough with each other that it doesn’t take much effort for Duv not to contribute to the discussion. It’s interesting to listen to the high Vor version of this familiar debate. He doubts that any of them have delved deep into history in general, but they can all pull out a range of historical facts with a certain ease that goes beyond the stiffness of memorized facts that even his best educated non-Vor students tended to produce. 

Barrayaran school history texts don’t tend to favor discussion of the eccentricities of the Vor, or of the cobbled together nature of the system. That is not a fitting subject for the student to ponder. The system was and is and will always be, immutable and unchanging. This even as it’s set in overview of wars and political crises that is Barrayaran history. Unlike on Komarr, Duv doubts there are many teachers who deliver the lessons with any skepticism. 

The Case of Lord Midnight, when addressed in some of the courses where he’d played teaching assistant, was often talked about in a fashion completely devoid of any humor and, in rare cases, could provoke almost violent arguments about the Council of the Counts and the line between Vor and Prole. Duv doesn’t think he had any real revolutionaries in the carefully scanned student body, but there had been more than a few who clearly saw themselves as speaking words they’d been taught by parents could risk arrest or some other trouble. David might have scorned them with his father’s words, Duv keeps his own council and appreciates the risk. It’s not a revolution of bombs and nerve disrupters, but the changing nature of the faces that fill the halls of the Imperial University in Vorbarr Sultana is its own kind of revolution. 

Ivan and Sonia have devolved into a sentence fragment filled conversation of siblings who know each other too well to need to finish – or even start – a full thought. Duv can’t tell if they’re arguing or agreeing on some old story involving someone taking someone’s horse. He doesn’t let himself wonder if he and Samuel could have ever been like this. He tries not to think about his brother often. Too often it turns into an unfair echo of thoughts on his father. Memories of Samuel’s face turn too easily to the wreck that had been all that was left behind. Blown up with their own weapons in a futile, pointless attack. Useless, unless it had been a final refusal to be taken, to back down in any way. Would Samuel have chosen that? Had he known, when their father told him they were making one more strike? _Be good, David_. They never said goodbye. 

Lord Vorkosigan is watching him. Duv raises an eyebrow, controlled in the certainty that his thoughts are unreadable. 

“How kind of you to invite me to join you, Lord Vorkosigan.” Ivan looks guilty, though Duv thinks its pure spinal reflex from hearing his tone. Vorkosigan grins, unmoved. 

“I couldn’t let Lady Sonia visit her brother unescorted,” Duv suspects it’s only the public nature of the venue that saves him from a piece of bread to the face for that line, “But the pleasure has been all mine, I’m sure.”

“I’m sure.” It wouldn’t be appropriate to tell him to cut the bullshit. Duv can’t afford to be anything other than appropriate even, especially, in the face of someone who aims to be anything else. 

Vorkosigan might sense the words anyway, or maybe he’s just grown bored with elaborate pleasantries, because he shifts into something more direct. Duv isn’t sure he even realizes that some of his careful appearance of insouciance has dropped as he leans forward slightly. 

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“I never thought to be so honored,” Duv murmurs. It’s hard to tell, but he’s used to hunting down hints of reaction, and he thinks the small movements speak to a growing irritation. Vorkosigan _had_ noticed his lack of participation in their conversations. 

“What do you think of the Emperor?” Well, Duv can’t complain of lack of directness there.

“Miles!” Ivan spins from his sister to try to pin Vorkosigan with a glare. Shockingly, it seems to have some effect. Vorkosigan’s challenging smile grows into something more defensive. 

“It’s just a question. The Emperor is very interested in Komarr.”

Ivan’s glare doesn’t shift. Despite himself, Duv might be slightly touched at the defense. Ivan might not be the most personally tactful, and there’s a certain amount of thoughtless laziness at times that can be irritating to work with, but he’s loyal. And it doesn’t take the high-tension social training of a Vor a little to close to the Emperor’s sea to know there are some questions you don’t ask in polite company. Still, Duv doesn’t need his junior officer’s defense to take care of the conversation. Ivan settles back at Duv’s pointed look, though his attention remains distracted from his sister’s carefully light chatter about their siblings. 

“An interest that I’m sure Komarr appreciates.” A carefully laconic answer. One he’d admit that is designed to provoke, but he wasn’t the one who started this game. It’s not the answer Vorkosigan wants, point to Duv. 

Duv takes a bite of his salad, ignoring the intensity he’d suspected hide behind the not entirely successful façade of Vor about town. 

Ser Galen hadn’t had much interest in the boy Emperor. Duv isn’t sure if his father’s hatred for the Vorkosigans can truly be called reasonable, but perhaps more so than if it had been directed at a child. The most attention Ser Galen ever paid him was the occasional remark that if he ever made it to the throne, the Barrayarans would likely have another like the carefully erased, on Barrayar, Prince Serg. He had planned to kill the boy, of course, but that was just a small detail. The deaths of children were often small details in Ser Galen’s mind. It was Aral Vorkosigan who held a sick fascination for him, the architect and main perpetrator in Komarr’s demise, the man ultimately responsible for every ill they faced. 

Even David Galen, though very quietly, had had his doubts about describing their current circumstances the death of the true Komarr. Duv can occasionally derive some bleak amusement at his father’s very Barrayaran ideas of the division of responsibility. 

Barrayaran history, perhaps especially it’s military history, dangles the lure of The Great Man in front of a people primed to grab onto that model of historical construction. Duv, who does his best to study the system, can understand the appeal. Aral Vorkosigan looms large. As a leader in victory, in defeat, and then in control of the whole Empire. It had been had hard to imagine the unremarkable young Emperor being able to step out of his shadow if the man deigned to hand over the image of power at the end of the regency. 

Then Count Vorbarra had cast his vote to allow Komarrans into the Imperial Service proper, and Duv started to pay close attention. Over the last six years, this Count Vorbarra has cast more votes than his predecessor had in more than thirty years. Emperor Ezar, they say, had let it be known what he wanted the outcome of a vote to be, but it was rare that he had put his name on it. 

Emperor Gregor makes the expected speeches. He talks about the importance of service, praises the military, talks of plans for the future. Nothing is too pointedly objectionable or unusual. But Count Vorbarra keeps voting. If you look at the pattern of votes, a pattern starts to appear in the speeches as well. Where he delivers them. Who is called up to stand by him. How often his visits are accompanied by other legislation. How often he’s visited Komarr, despite the danger. 

To watch Barrayaran politics from the outside is to always know yourself an outsider. Duv acknowledges that part of his frustration comes from a personal angle rather than any noble desire or belief in the importance of freedom of information. He _does_ believe the spread of information is important. Komarran news might not have been completely free from outside interference, but it had been far freer and more open than anything managed on Barrayar. The people deserve to know. But he knows himself. Gods damn Lord Ivan Vorpatril can probably offer a deeper explanation of the meaning of votes at a glance then Duv can get until careful study, and maybe even more then he’d get then, because so much of what really matters happens in the quiet rooms of great houses. Politics on Barrayar remind him of basic demonstrations of terraforming shown to careless investors, the glory of a small bog presented as product with all the labor, arguments, politics and money poured in by so many to produce it hidden. 

There’s a reason Duv left the chance of Professorship to join the Imperial Service Academy, and it wasn’t a longing to surround himself with testosterone filled teenagers dreaming of ship command, or because of any dream of sacrificing himself for his Emperor. He could’ve made a place for himself in the college, produced work that would be taken seriously by intellectuals. He would’ve faced plenty of accusations of assimilation, but the type that could sometimes be accompanied by pride. There’s no pride in the uniform of a traitor. There’s little chance of academic respect. But there’s the possibility of truly being able to _do_ something. Of gaining a position of actual power. A man who goes through the service, even a Komarran – especially a Komarran, perhaps – can hope for a position in Komarran affairs and not be ridiculed for holding an unrealistic dream. He can earn a chance to learn the workings of Barrayar. Earn a position in the government and can’t Duv just imagine his father’s face. He can’t imagine his aunts. 

Duv wants the future he can imagine for himself in this uniform. He wants the power it can bring. He looks at Vorkosigan and sees everything that was handed to him, even as he suspects that there’s at least a part of Vorkosigan that would rather be wearing the uniform of a lowly Lieutenant than holding the gifts of being trusted by the Emperor. 

“The Emperor is pleased at how many of His Komarran subjects have chosen to join the service.” Vorkosigan continues, most of the hunger in his eyes leashed again. He sees it as a chance for the Empire to be united in the way it should have been from the beginning. A way forward to heal old wounds.”

Duv’s heard the speeches too. He bites back any comments on the unity of spilling blood together to clean up bad blood. “I’m sure we all share that hope.” 

“Yes. I’m sure. Many have said so.” Vorkosigan looks up at the ceiling a moment, with an innocence that would set-off all Duv’s warning bells, even if he couldn’t see the Vorpatril’s siblings’ expressions. “Unfortunately, they’ve usually only had a brief time to share their opinions. Very busy, you know. And, of course, we don’t have too many who’ve gotten a chance to really experience what it’s like to serve out of the Academy yet, Captain.” 

“These things take time.” Damn it. Yes, it was a quick promotion, but not one that Duv is going to let anyone claim is less earned than many other ranks given to prove a point, he’s old enough that most don’t even think much about it unless they take the time to figure out the mental math. He knows he has dues to pay, and he’s never complained. He doesn’t need not-so-subtle comments from smug little bastards. 

Lord Vorkosigan claps his hands, as if they’ve come to some grand agreement. 

“Exactly. Gregor will be so pleased to know you’re starting off with the right perspective. Tomorrow, before lunch, then. Ivan can take you.” 

Yet again, Duv has to offer an unspoken thanks to his junior officer. At least the complaints about having work and not being able to run off to the Imperial Palace answer questions Duv didn’t want to ask. All the questions that were _raised_ are another problem altogether.


	5. adelaide counter gambit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Kareen goes to Earth, and certain people reflect on the importance of adjectives when it comes to luck

Earth, the mother planet, from where all scattered humanity had once dwelled. Earth, the fitting end to her not quite pilgrimage. Earth, where there truly aren’t enough hours in the day. At least it’s nothing close to as bad as Komarr, where Kareen had occasionally been tempted to wonder if revolutionaries were produced in part from a lack enough hours of sleep. Though she’d never been short enough on her own sleep to say that out loud. 

Earth, which still marked by the effects of the great land hunger that had set off so many wars before it had been alleviated slightly when they had been able to start sending out ships to settle elsewhere. Though that hunger had proved to remain sharp in heart of those descendants who have spread out among the stars but still reach for more. Now, Earth is not quite united, but not quite separated as it had been. So much history, more than can be boasted by any other planet, the scars and triumphs of it leaving their echoes and calling out to her, daughter of a planet with its own complicated history (daughter of Earth, too, of course, or perhaps granddaughter, she has none of the allergies to native Barrayaran plants that so afflict poor, five-eighths Betan Miles). 

Centuries ago, Kareen’s ancestors had left their home ‘countries’ on Earth, seeking a new and better world. It sounds more romantic if you put aside some of the suspicions about just how those first colonists had defined ‘better’. Those long-ago men and women had wanted a return to a simpler way of life, they had rejected the corrupt and decadent world they saw as having brought the plague of genetic mutations down upon itself and had been willing to risk jumping to one of the further corners of the universe to do so. Most of them taking off from Beta Colony, which is amusing in its own way, as they’d preached on its corruption of its twisting subsurface existence while talking of the clear skies of the world where they could truly know the Earth again. They had gained a far simpler existence than even the most dramatic of them had called for. Perhaps. 

Many ships had taken off from Earth and Beta Colony in the first heady, dangerous centuries of exploration and colonization, when no one had been sure how many settleable planets there would be to find before anyone else could lay claim and there had been many eager philosophers of all types had dreamed of setting up their new utopias. Between unscrupulous collection of information and the disturbances of the twenty-fifth century, it’s hard to know how many ships were lost or the full history of a colony that was more interested in surviving than keeping track of how they’d arrived. That she can see her ancestors in the story doesn’t mean that it was true of those first settlers who had no idea of the centuries of isolation that were about to be imposed upon them. She still buys the documentary to share with Gregor when she gets home. 

Kareen watches the dragons fight at noon. The red and white beasts put on an impressive display, the fire eye catching even during the day, far more absorbing than the chirpy tour guide’s focus on the science rather than the myth. The Ambassador’s wife has a sharp eye, not only for what’s proper but also for what would appeal to her guest. A charming woman, Clara, Kareen had added a note of commendation of her competence to the end of her latest tight beam message. Many of the ambassador’s wives, or unattached social secretary, though that’s still rare in a Barrayaran embassy, she’d met with along her trip had had a much harder time balancing the awkwardness of hosting a woman with the social status of the Emperor’s mothers with the necessity of keeping her exact identity quiet. She doesn’t blame them, but while she always does her best to minimize the fuss, it can be very tiring to return to awkward formalities after the escape of being Kareen. Her brief check ins with the Earth embassy had almost been comfortable enough to stay, if she hadn’t had other arrangements. 

Paul and Dima are good boys. ‘Boys’ is likely the wrong word to describe them, but they look young to her tired eyes. Paul had worked in Vorbarr Sultana and Dima had done security for the Escobaran embassy before they had been called in to escort their Emperor’s mother on tour. They fulfill her requirements as well as passing whatever tests Simon Illyan no doubt had for them, and they haven’t let slip any sign of wishing to be on more important missions. They can occasionally be found looking slightly resigned at the latest list of museums and important sites to be checked, though both had been gratifyingly annoyed at the embassy’s ImpSec captain’s not well hidden desire that she remain locked up in the basement if she _haed_ to take the wild risk of leaving Barrayar in the first place. 

Most of their offense is no doubt a matter of professional pride, but they had stoutly defended the care she takes in terms of practical safety in uncoached terms. Kareen has never tried to escape guards or make their lives any harder than is necessitated by their position. She had been trained to that long before she entered into the complicated balance of power that came with being the mother of the man they were sworn to (there had been nothing complicated in being Ezar’s daughter-in-law or Serg’s wife, but Simon is not Negri). She’s as conscious as they are about her position so she wouldn’t claim anything like friendship, but inside the shades allowed even with the careful delineation of their respective roles, she thinks they’ve gained a certain type of understanding, traveling together as they are. 

When Dima’s carefully trained composure had slipped slightly at a friendly Betan’s question about their relationship status, Kareen hadn’t had to hide all her amusement. Paul has relaxed enough to even make one or two jokes about the instance to Dima in her presence. Kareen had admitted in a letter to Cordelia that she had been slightly flattered. She knows that she doesn’t catch much attention when removed from her trappings. She had been a pretty enough girl – in the words of her always sensitive father-in-law – who, much more importantly, had the right breeding and a general understanding that she was in good health. Now she no longer dresses the part of sparkling hostess, she remains pretty enough to ignore when surrounded by the glitter of youthful good health. She might only feel a slightly maternal twinge when faced with energy and determination of her escorts, but she can still take a moment to amuse herself with the bubble-delicate image of having them on her train. 

Kareen hopes her loyal bodyguards can appreciate the scenery, despite the ingrained ImpSec paranoia and checking for any possible danger. After all, they’re all visiting the homelands of their ancestors. The sparkling beaches of Greece. The reconstructed homes in Russia. The built-up layers of England. The determinedly twenty-sixth century style that makes the cities of France stand out. Of course, it had all been very different then, and many of their ancestors had likely already lost their homes in these ancient lands, the dispossessed looking for a new land… But that doesn’t make the present views any less enchanting. 

As Kareen sips coffee and looks out across the Mediterranean, she can admit to herself that there’s an extra sheen that comes with being so far away from everything Barrayar. She doubts few people off the street could locate Barrayar on a star chart or have any idea of its history or politics. She can watch a sex scandal breaking (it might take down the current coalition in the German states, but it’s nice to see a sex scandal where everyone seems to have at least enjoyed themselves on the way) and know that short of the Barrayaran Empire splitting up, and maybe not even that, she’s unlikely to see any mention of it on the vids. She hadn’t really thought she’d wanted to run away until she’d gotten a chance to see what it’s like. 

Still, Kareen isn’t removed enough from her usual cares and thoughts that she isn’t immediately on full alert for any specific threat when the tour bus jolts to a sudden stop. Dima has his hand on his stunner as Paul casually leans towards the driver, ready to send back information in quick gestures as soon as he knows what’s happening. Kareen doesn’t feel any release of tension at the report of a tire failure, sticking close to Dima as they exchange meaningless complaints with other passengers as they’re herded off the bus. If it is just a mechanical failure – well, they were right, the tour had felt too confining for her as it was. If it isn’t, then an announced breakdown is just the sort of warning sign she knows to look out for. 

Both her guards are jumpy as they settle in a café, voucher and apology accepted but none of them had needed to say anything to reach a silent agreement that they’re not getting in any such unsecured vehicle again. She suspects that as soon as she’s somewhere secured enough to somewhat reassure them, the poor bus driver is going to have his information thoroughly gone throw. She doesn’t feel any urge to stop them, she’s still shaken herself by the reminder of how ingrained some lessons are. When she hears a familiar buzz as she steps out of the restroom, she curses herself for not being shaken enough. 

Kareen doesn’t know how long it is until she wakes up, not restrained or more uncomfortable than the expected result of a stunner hangover, not that that takes away any of her worries. She would have kept her eyes closed longer, but the she can’t resist trying to locate the source of the pacing feet. 

“Her. It wasn’t supposed to be _her_ ,” a voice says. Kareen blinks, but even through the remaining haze, she sees the terror-stricken face of Miles Vorkosigan with perfect clarity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next time: Duv meets an Emperor


	6. english opening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Duv talks with an Emperor

“Miles isn’t that bad, really,” Ivan says, in direct contradiction to all the evidence Duv has gathered so far. At least he appears to recognize that as he goes on. “I know, but it’s just that he’s not good at… stopping. If you manage to slow him down, he’s a decent sort. And he’s worried about this whole business, which makes _me_ worry, not that anyone cares about that. He has a bit of a showmanship problem too; you don’t want to know what he did to Lord Vorgerin.” 

Duv knows better, he really does, but he still can’t stop himself in time. “What did he do to Lord Vorgerin?”

“You don’t want to know.” Duv tries to remind himself that he’s done far too much and worked much too hard so that to throw it all away by strangling Ivan and running off for a life of crime (or return to such, as some might say) is not an option. For one thing, Ivan’s driving. “Of course, Vorgerin _was_ trying to kill Gregor so one can’t have much sympathy.” A reasonable point. If he had been trying to kill Ivan, or Vorkosigan, Duv could summon up a lot of sympathy. “Then there was Johann Vortashpula. And that business with the Vorrutyers. I think the business with Lieutenant Fenn was more on the cruel side, but I think that was Sonya’s hand…” 

Duv does his best not to twitch. ‘Vortashpula’ sounds familiar and everyone knows about the messy Vorrutyer case and he’d heard something about a Lieutenant Fenn transferring to Doroteyar. He had been unaware that there was any connection with Vorkosigan. Or that Ivan had been aware of anything about them beyond the normal gossip. He truly hates not knowing things, at least these days he can blame ImpSec training. 

Ivan’s rambling semi-briefing slows a little as he swings around another sharp corner. Knowing Ivan’s reckless approach to traffic safety, Duv refocuses. He doesn’t think the pause is out of concern for other flyers. “Gregor – I don’t know Gregor that well. My father and his mother, and my mother too really, you know,” he waves a hand, like he’s spoken in anything like a clear and straightforward fashion, and Duv tries not to take an obvious deep breath as he mentally counts to ten. At least it’s a distraction from the urge to tell Ivan to keep his eyes on the road, which never does any good.

Duv _does_ know the figures in this case well enough to make a reasonable guess. Any support for the claim of Prince Xav’s younger grandson couldn’t be made without drawing attention to the claim of his older grandson, but even Aral Vorkosigan forbidding attitude wasn’t enough to have held off the… excessive interest some people had in an Vorpatril branch that was far from the Countship. There were still some who felt that Xav had had a greater claim to the campstool than Ezar, legally or occasionally morally, though it’s hard to believe that they’re not more moved by the additional fact of his good marriage, healthy children and years of service than drawing lines of descent that have to skirt around the scowling Count Vorkosigan and his obviously unsuitable heir. And wasn’t the Princess-Dowager some relation to Xav as well, in the uncomfortably incestuous Vor way of making sure of claims? Duv suspects there are some rather close relations in his own family tree, family shares being believed best kept within the family, but there was a bit more mixture among the great families of Komarr and, besides, they had better ways of checking the genes of the next generation than going through paper family trees. In any case, if Lord Padma or Lady Alys have any interest in their children becoming closer heirs to the Imperium than they already were, no one seems to have found it. 

“I suppose I met him a few times,” Ivan says, with unusual reflectiveness. “He was there sometimes when the old Count would invite us down to the Long Lake. Now there was a proper terrifying old man, not that Uncle Aral’s any better. But Gregor was older, you know, he could escape Miles bossing all the rest of us around.” A slight arresting image, that. “He isn’t the sort of person you try to mess around. He isn’t fond of things being sprung upon him. Quiet, I suppose, but a… strong personality. You don’t want to be on the receiving end of his temper. For one, he can get _very_ sarcastic.” 

Duv thinks that devastating sarcasm won’t be his great worry if he manages to upset the Emperor in a ‘conversation’ that _Duv_ hadn’t asked for to begin with.

No, that one, at least, is unfair. Duv might not have asked for this opportunity, but he would’ve bloody well killed for it if he’d dreamed there was the slightest chance it could be within his reach. He might even forgive Ivan someday despite his suspicions about how big a role his oh-so-innocent junior officer had played in the whole mess last night having grown with the rambling defense and explanations. 

All talk of the Emperor’s personality is abandoned, well all talk is abandoned, as they’re carefully scanned and then told to follow after a man in Vorbarra livery through the halls of the Imperial Residence. Duv wouldn’t call himself daunted, but he’s still struck by the history of the place. Barrayar has a few centuries on Komarr, but the Imperial Residence is a relatively modern building. Duv has walked through older streets in Solstice, but it hadn’t felt the same. Though there’s likely plenty to give lie to the image of Komarr’s history as having followed a neat progression from foundation to present, even if the drama is different than Barrayar’s bloody mess. _Control your fascinations, Doctor Galeni_. 

Ivan looks vastly relieved when he’s allowed to abandon Duv for an antechamber as Duv is waved into the presence of his Emperor. Duv wonders if he’s supposed to take the murmur about collecting Lieutenant Vorpatril when he leaves as an attempt at reassurance. Likely not a threat, unless the man has had encounters with Ivan before. 

Gregor Vorbarra shouldn’t be an arresting figure. He’s thin, with dark hair, hazel eyes and a serious face. Duv knows that if the Emperor stood, he’d be shorter than him, not to mention the years that separate them. Yet, despite the distance he should have, despite every undercurrent and emotion that has remained through his time on Barrayar and in the Service, there’s still some strange reaction to being in the presence of the Emperor. _His_ Emperor, to who he’d sworn himself to with words he’d meant, with all he’d known of Barrayaran Emperors and Barrayar fully present in his mind. 

Duv doesn’t even have to wrestle with the usual edge of self-consciousness that can creep in when he thinks of the rituals and oaths that he has committed himself to. Despite, or perhaps because, the Emperor is wearing a simple, if extremely well made, suit and sitting behind a perfectly normal desk. Normal to Barrayar, at least, and more modern than some wooden monstrosities Duv has stood in front of. There’s a rather nice watercolor hanging on the wall. 

“Captain Galeni, please sit down.” The Emperor watches him for a moment, for the first time in a long time, Duv wonders what impression he makes. “I believe Lord Vorkosigan conveyed my desire to speak with you.”

Duv supposes he might be imagining the slight dryness hidden in the words. He makes sure to suppress the twitch of a smile in response. “He did, Sire. I was honored, if a touch surprised.” No doubt the Emperor knows every word that had been exchanged. “I’m sure I couldn’t offer any new information about Komarr.” 

“No itemized list?” He waves a hand, dismissing his own words. “Apologies, Captain. I’m sure you wouldn’t be surprised to learn that I frequently meet with people who are happy to share information that is far from new with me. At some length.”

He’s here. Risk and reward. The moment of breathless plunging forward he’d found words for when he’d first felt the shock of jumping into a lake but had known even on a planet where you learned to check for air before you started on the alphabet. “I can’t claim to be shocked to hear that, Sire.”

The Emperor doesn’t smile, but there’s something in his eyes. He looks up at the ceiling and then back at Duv. “I won’t insult you by claiming that you can speak freely without fear of others reading meaning into your every word. But I would ask for your words, despite the risk.” 

“If no one could hear what we said, I would hope that a security team would be knocking at the door to make sure of your health.” Duv says, watching the Emperor.

“A good ImpSec man.” 

“I try. And it wouldn’t do much for anyone if a Komarran was found next to your body with no proof that it was some sudden unexpected stroke instead of an attack.” It’s the right thing to say, or close enough. The Emperor does offer him a slight smile for that. If that’s a sign of the man behind the mask, it doesn’t take away from his presence. 

“There have been Words about cameras, so I’ll state for the record that there’s been no contact that would allow the transfer of a poison that could induce such effects upon my person.” 

“Thank you, Sire, that is sure to clear my name immediately.” Ridiculous, and dangerous, but Captain Illyan hasn’t arrived to remove him yet. 

“I have a duty to My people. All of them.”

“Including the Komarrans.” 

“Especially the Komarrans. And the brave settlers of Doroteyar. And my Counts and soldiers and proles. A duty to help them. A duty to listen. Not always to follow what they say, as I have not chosen to die destroying as many Vor as I can while declaring for democracy. Nor have I ordered that the ports be burned, and that we will return to the Time of Isolation. Nor have I decreed that Komarr should be independent.” There’s no hint of humor to the last, but no insult of apology either. 

“There are many extremes.” Risk. Reward. “Barrayar will never let Komarr go.” 

“No, we won’t. I won’t order you to either defend the Empire or to object to Our conquest of your planet.” This time, Duv doesn’t think the Emperor’s reflective expression is a sign that he’s looking at listening devices. Without control of Komarr, Barrayar would face a different type of isolation. Barrayar will not let Komarr go, and this young, progress hunting Emperor doesn’t dream of granting it independence. But Duv never thought he had. 

For men like Ser Galen, the Conquest of Komarr and everything that had come with it retroactively justifies any part the former rulers of the planet had played in the Cetagandans attempted takeover of Barrayar. For most on Barrayar, the bloody war justifies everything they’ve done to make sure that they can’t be trapped again. Duv thinks that both the past and the present are more complicated than that, but he has chosen his future. 

“That would likely be… uncomfortable.” They share a look. 

“And unproductive. I have something of a distaste for needlessly unproductive conversations.” Duv wonders if he’d gotten that from his former Regent. Count Vorkosigan was a man said to like to get to the point. Yet the Emperor seems to stand his son… “I have regular briefings on the status of Komarr, and her people. What I have far less of are the _voices_ of her people, especially ones who understand the workings of Barrayar. Something you seem quite qualified for in multiple ways, Doctor Galeni.”

“It’s been some time since I was on Komarr.” A posting to Komarran affairs? Too soon? Too low rank?

“I am aware.” The Emperor remains still, but Duv can’t help but think he’d shuffle flimsies if he hadn’t been trained out of idly movements. “I don’t require a current account of affairs. I would instead request a… perspective. Your view on what Komarr was and what it is.” _What it could be_. “So that We can give, not simply take.” For all his cool control, the Emperor’s hazel eyes are bright and intense. 

Duv meets his gaze, steadily. “I’ll tell you what I can.” 

The alarming thing about that, Duv reflects as he’s given back his stunner (and Ivan), is that he thinks he means it more than he can fully say.


	7. englund gabit trap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Kareen finds herself in a situation that makes no sense at all, and makes a new friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when it comes to the topic of being kept prisoner, Kareen is not the most reliable narrator on what the Barrayaran response would be

There is something very wrong with Kareen’s captors. 

She had been willing to offer a certain amount of understanding. It must have been unsettling to think yourselves kidnapping Lady Isadore – currently enjoying a well-deserved holiday on Beta Colony – only to see the face of Princess-Dowager Kareen looking back at you instead. But alarm over realizing the size of the giant who would be following after this particular golden goose is an excuse that only goes so far. 

After all, the difference isn’t so great, certain admittedly not-so-small factors aside. What had they been plotting for her cousin? A ransom could’ve been handsome enough, though there aren’t enough shell layers to hide themselves from retribution. The Komarrans could likely use the money, but not so much as to attract so much attention. The Emperor isn’t fond of people trying to use His subjects in such a way, it sets the wrong precedent. Murder? She’s still alive, and what would that have gained but, again, attention. Information? Isadore is a known player in the social scene, though these Komarrans clearly have far too much information as it is. 

Still, just because Kareen doesn’t know what their plan had been, it doesn’t mean that they shouldn’t be able to… scale it up to fit the new circumstances. Or, if they were throwing it away to take advantage of the unique opportunities she presented, they should move more quickly. They know too much not to know their time is growing shorter by the moment. 

Unless Captain Turgen is their source, and she has a hard time believing that, the clock had started ticking for them the moment she hadn’t checked in that afternoon. And even if it was him, there would only be so long before any excuse manufactured for why she didn’t meet with the Ambassador’s Lady would fall through. Or, even if everything else managed to go their way, the lack of the message at the appropriate time would set wheels in motion. Her true identity likely wouldn’t be announced immediately, the tradeoff of the numbers of Earth security would be placed against the possibility that her true identity remained a secret to whoever had her, the dangers of the other Embassies reporting back, and the police trying to get in the way of Turgen taking and interrogating who he wanted. A message sent to sector security for a larger team and further to Barrayar for more orders. 

(Paul and Dima are most likely dead, even if she hopes instead that they’re captive somewhere out of fear of their bodies being found and raising an alarm.) 

There should be something, and as stone faced as her guards try to be, she can see glimpses of uncertainty underneath, though she’d grant it’s well hidden. Perhaps because they’re following the only man who appears to lack any sort of uncertainty or concern about the change in prisoners. 

Kareen had recognized Ser Galen’s face from the file she had received on his son. Duv Galeni doesn’t look much like his father, but it had still been strange to see name attached, a reminder of the bloody mess on Komarr, the one they don’t want to happen again. She does her best not to add poetry to the prose of life, but she couldn’t help but think there was something in the idea of the son of a man who had wanted to hold onto the blood of the past helping to make a more peaceful future, perhaps the type his aunt had dreamed of building before she had been killed. There’s far less poetry in the hatred of a dead man, and far too much tragedy. 

Kareen has always been at risk of being kidnapped, and she’d sat through all the most likely case scenarios of what her captors might want. The threat she offered as a prisoner wasn’t usually seen as revealing information. The amount she had been provided with even when she had been Gregor’s guardian through his minority was limited, and would have been even more so without the order from his Regent (likely on the word of his Lady, but Kareen does her best to be fair to Aral Vorkosigan, if it was Cordelia’s suggestion, he still listened and implemented it). After Gregor took power, well, she has plenty of personal information, but the useful pieces are already in the hands of the government, not enough for many to risk it. The far greater risk had been as a hostage to Gregor’s emotions, but she had always known what sacrifice might be necessary. 

Or, of course, she could be taken to be killed as an act of revenge, her death an attack on what she symbolizes. She has no desire to die, but it had seemed the most likely answer to the question of what would happen when she learned who was in charge. But Ser Galen hadn’t arrived to witness her death. Rage is still burning through him, but she doesn’t seem to register to him. Even the questioning had been practically offhand, Fast-Penta stripping away everything for barely more than basic facts. Then she’d been returned to the small room that served as her cell and told that she would be giving the _clone_ lessons on Barrayar. 

Ser Galen. A man who would kill his children. Kareen had read the reports. The older boy hadn’t been more than seventeen. Galen doesn’t seem to have been caught in the blast. And his ‘death’ and escape from Komarr couldn’t have been a split-second choice. Kareen hadn’t thought that his obliteration, carrying the life of others with him, had been a worthy death, but it now seems practically heroic compared to the true path of events. Yes, she can see the cultural conditioning in that thought, but whatever might be granted to the sense of someone who knew to leave and try a different way didn’t hold up when you could see just what twisted form his legacy took. 

Ser Galen had sacrificed his oldest son to his cause. He would no doubt sacrifice his second – and perhaps the clone should make the list as the youngest of his children to be surely delivered to his death. Whatever the plot, the ending remained the same. Sowing seeds of confusion, perhaps. A claim of replacement during the times Miles had been off world. More reasons for unease for the many who already dislike how close a mutant is to her son. An act that just needs him to get in close enough to cause the death of Aral Vorkosigan – which would surely cause chaos though she suspects that Ser Galen’s desire for Count Vorkosigan’s death might be tied, or even come slightly before, his dreams for Komarr. A long list of others to kill as a matter of course. Gregor, of course. Revolution on Komarr, as the Imperium spasms around attempts at the campstool. Considering the intelligence leaks made clear, perhaps there really is a greater unrest there than even the reports say. She assumes the plans must have shifted and changed over the years, reacting to circumstances, but a great deal of money and time – even if it wasn’t _his_ time – had gone into creating and molding this clone. 

She really shouldn’t be allowed to speak with him. Ser Galen hadn’t struck the analysists as particularly stupid, even if she adjusted the judgment down to account for the Barrayaran admiring sort of hatred that could be offered to someone who relentlessly fought and died for stupid odds. Look at Escobar. Look at Serg, remembered _well_ for that mess. There’s certainly plenty of madness to a plan of substitution, but it seems to have formerly been at least internal coherent. 

Whatever Galen had been planning it had required something of the clone, even if likely only very shortly. The degree of independent movement needed to accomplish his goals meant that all he learned should be far more strictly monitored. She could believe that the fact he already held his own, personal grievances, ones that he had been open enough with when she had asked about his origins, might be excused as acceptable as long as his anger and hatred for Barrayar weighed heavier for long enough to enact various revenges. But the details she can offer him personally on the act of the high Vor can’t outweigh the risk of contact, not with his intelligence and emotional vulnerability. 

Once Kareen had managed to move beyond the first bout of suppressed internal screaming at all the possible scenarios clones presented, she had decided that a clear look at all the headache inducing legal arguments that come attached still make Cordelia’s casual description far too blasé. She hadn’t expected to end up enclosed with a clone of Cordelia’s son, teaching him details of Barrayar. 

“Aral Miles, perhaps,” she says, the topic of the proper placement of guests abandoned for the moment as she watches the clone pace back and forth. 

The clone jerks to a stop, turning to stare at her with Miles’ grey eyes. No, not exactly his eyes. She thinks the boy looks slightly younger than his… originator, though it can be hard for strangers to guess Miles’ age, but while the tics are worryingly accurate (there has been a serious security breach, _words_ are going to need to be had), but the greatest difference is in his eyes. Strange, considering that she would best label the souls behind them as possessed by a type of desperation. 

“What are you talking about?” The voice and tone are just right, she’s not sure if it’s the similarities or the implications that’s more unsettling. Miles with his attention caught, and feeling slightly annoyed, by not knowing something. But, no, not Miles. 

“Names. They’re quite important on Barrayar, you know.” Miles would know, Ser Galen hadn’t intended for his little copy to last long, had he. “So much of a son’s path is already set out, before they’re even born. For us.” He doesn’t react to the low bait in the ‘us’ but he’s still watching, still listening. “The first two sons have the name of their paternal and maternal grandfathers all lined up and waiting. 

“I believe it can get quite confusing to students when they begin to study the history of Barrayar, though it’s also useful for when they have to work backwards to try to guess at Count’s first names.” She wonders what sort of student of Barrayaran history he’d been. A quick one, surely, but only in the lessons he’d been given. “Your first son given to duty, and your second, and then all the rest of them too, in truth. Daughters too, of course, but at least they’re sometimes allowed their own names. Likely because their expected to be replaced by their husbands’.

“Where it can get even more confusing, or interesting, depending on your taste, is when you examine second marriages. A man’s second marriage, which were generally rarer than a woman marrying again, especially if he already had heirs. During the Time of Isolation, a woman was rather expected to get married if she lost her husband, as a matter of protection.” He doesn’t look like he’d be interested in Helen Vorthys fascinating paper on how much truth there was to this expectation. “Dynastically, you can witness certain seeds of family dynamics just by what the first son to him of that marriage is named. Though even without halfsiblings, there have been a few scandals when a child isn’t granted his grandfather’s name.” A scandal Miles had escaped, eclipsed as it was by the obvious reason for the lack of ‘Piotr’. 

The clone frowns at her. “Your son isn’t Emperor Ezar the second.” Clever, of course he’s too clever, and not the question she’d been expecting. Still, it would take far more than that to break her composure. 

“Emperors, or perhaps people who believe they will and should be Emperor, can consider themselves exceptions to the norms others follow. They’re generally shown the limits of those exceptions quite violently. Gregor was named for his great uncle, who had been Emperor and thus father to all of us, in a way.” She hasn’t even told Gregor that, but what does this boy really know or care of Mad Emperor Yuri or Emperor Ezar or Prince Serg, they aren’t the monsters under his bed. Indeed, his angry creator no doubt had plenty of other monsters to offer. Better to continue. 

“There are questions of legitimacy, but Miles would grant a son the right to the name of his grandfather. The matter of the maternal grandfather might be trickier, but more than one recognized bastard has been given his father’s name in that place, and since Miles was _his_ grandfather’s name, it could do its duty.”

“He is _not_ my father,” the clone says, repulsed. But he’d listened through the chain of logic, to what _Miles_ might think.

“The exact legal status seems complicated. Cordelia would likely say it’s simple, but that’s because she disapproves of our inheritance systems. Barrayar doesn’t have any laws on the matter, yet. You would make a rather dramatic first case. There are precedents on bastards, but those are not entirely codified, and not necessarily applicable. The Council of Counts might find a brother a more acceptable prospect than a son. Inheritance, you understand. I suppose Mark Pierre would solve the question of whether I should inquire what Ser Galen’s father’s name was.” 

“You’re insane, all – ridiculous.” 

She restrains a comment about the usual fate of Princess-Dowagers and Emperor’s mothers’ sanity in the history books. His appearance isn’t an invitation for the type of humor Miles appreciates too much for his own good. That’s a different lesson. 

“Countess Vorkosigan might prefer another son to a grandson. Miles was rather young when you were born. Though I can tell you now that a claim for ‘Piotr’ won’t get any Count on your side.” He’s rather… short for that one, a chance at some legal chaos Ser Galen obviously hadn’t been interested in. Of course, the suggestion that Miles’ appearance was not as teratogenic as claimed would be a blow that plenty would believe. 

When the clone – Mark, she can’t help thinking with Cordelia’s voice whispering the name, leaves the lesson for the day, the guard trailing behind him, her thoughts return to the groove they get caught in whenever she doesn’t have something else to focus on. When she’s not counting measures of time. 

Ser Galen does not appear to be a man with a great respect for women, or perhaps just not for Barrayaran women. There’s the assumption – unfortunately not as inaccurate as one could hope – of how women are seen on Barrayar. There’s all the surface information he’s gathered to try to turn a clone into a replica. Does he know, or think he knows, enough to believe that she doesn’t weigh much in the calculations? How much control does he think is in Count Vorkosigan’s hands, outweighing how much Gregor might care for her? A Vor woman’s duty, the expectation of sacrifice. 

Her death at the hands of Komarran terrorists will – would be enough to destroy… much. But that would have to be a large enough show that details can’t be covered up, a prospect that grows more difficult the longer they’re on Earth, far away from the Imperium and no doubt being hunted. And he’s not stupid enough to think that she could be made anything other than a martyr. She judges him content with the blood her death would bring on Komarr but perhaps not with the idea that she would be given the same name as his sister. Perhaps. Nothing fits as it should, and it makes the feeling of cold unease rise higher in her heart. 

Kareen has had some simple training, but she knows full well that she has no chance of getting free from the guards in some vid style fight. The men haven’t done anything particularly vicious, but she doesn’t think that any of them would hesitate to hurt her if she tried anything. Or if they were told to. Not out of the selection of Galen’s followers that she’s seen. All she has are the lessons with Mark and her careful work with him. The fruit that bears, the hunger in his eyes, his spat out revelations of desires beyond his role, the unease when she challenges him on questions a Barrayaran Lord would know or about the responsibility that an Emperor holds – any sweetness from that is drowned out by the fact that Galen hasn’t tried to stop her. Hasn’t even mentioned the name she uses for him now. That he responds to. 

Young – never little – Lord Miles hadn’t been a threat. Beyond that there had been far more pressing matters until one day she realized that the boy who was certainly not her son, was barely a nephew in truth, was Gregor’s brother non-the-less. A threat she hadn’t considered, a missed element. There have been plenty of those, over the years. She knows how to accept where she makes mistakes. She had taken such care with her affection, but Gregor sits in the middle of those walls and by necessity she has to care something for those that he does. Gregor is her greatest vulnerability, but never a weakness. How much of a weakness do they think she could be for him? 

Mark is not Miles, Kareen has no duty to him. The man who does have a duty had proved long ago that he didn’t care about the fate of the children of his blood, let alone one that shared the blood with his greatest enemy. But even if Ser Galen feels nothing, he can’t believe that Mark will be just as fanatically devoted to a cause he doesn’t seem to think on much. He has to know the dangers. _Mark_ knows the dangers. As little as he trusts anything, he had clearly expected some punishment for her ‘futile attempts to suborn’ him. Kareen wonders if Ser Galen realizes that Mark can see something is wrong, if he realizes that a boy who already assumes himself seen as a piece to be discarded is on high alert for signs that he’s to be thrown away before he can act. She wonders if he’s keeping track of the days. 

On what she thinks is the fifth day, or an eternity, Mark arrives for her ‘instruction’ late in the day. It takes a moment to realize the strange feeling of double vision that settles more heavily than it has for a while comes from how much his looks like Miles when he’s a coiled string of tension. He’s always on edge, but it’s usually more a sullen look than a hyperactive one, despite all his pacing. He looks at her sideways as he circles the room, looking back at the door again and again. She doesn’t recognize the guard that’s escorted him this time. He’s younger than most of the men she’s seen, blond, and with eyes that watch her carefully. Maybe he’s one of the Komarrans that have been kept – or have kept themselves, out of her sight, but combined with Mark’s nerves – 

“You think I want a place on Barrayar?” He says, sharp and a too fast. 

Kareen keeps her own voice steady. “I don’t know. I’m not sure if I always want a place on Barrayar. But Countess Vorkosigan would be happy to claim a son who has the sense to live somewhere else.”

Mark’s face twists, “You wouldn’t want her too.”

“It would present problems that I would prefer to avoid,” she agrees, careful honesty often her most useful tool, even if she’s only believed half the time. “Even if you had no training or agenda, just what you represent is a tangle for those I care about. But there would be another to present the problem, eventually, and you’re here now. I wouldn’t see you dead, if there’s a choice.” She raises an eyebrow. “Perhaps it’s my gentle heart at work.”

“Ha,” he scoffs. The fragment of someone she could almost like is even more dangerous, but she knows how to ignore that. He turns from her to the door and back again. “Why tell me what you have?”

“Currently, you’re a resource.” And a child. She doesn’t want to kill any more children. It’s not a taste she’d desired in the first place, and without the drive to protect Gregor pushing her forward, she’s not sure she could stomach the flavor. She shouldn’t have named him. An absurd thought, like an old lecture about animals meant to be food. But hadn’t been bred for the slaughter as sure as any of them? She hadn’t cried for her imagined pets, but for this boy – and he is surely that, for all that he looks Miles’ age he can’t be more than what, fifteen? Fourteen? “I don’t have many of those.”

He glares at her. “I could just leave by myself, I thought there was danger.” He knows there’s some danger to him, he might know more clearly than she does. He could escape far more easily without her, but she represents a chance at holding on to some sort of power, _he_ has dreams of hostages. But she thinks he much just think of salvation, too. Her rescuer, the rescuer of all the clones set to be cannibalized for power. 

“You could. But you’d be more likely to find somewhere… safer if you have my word offering it.” It’s dangerous to think too much on how nothing is safe, that’s the sort of thinking that can trap you. There’s something wrong, some failure in intelligence, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t someplace safer than this for both of them. 

“You would give your word?” He usually sounds somewhere between sneering and sarcastic at the idea of oaths, but this time he’s just coiled tight, waiting for _something_.

“I would.” 

They’re standing on the edge of something, farther than she had thought he would ever jump, even if she had still had to try. She half-expects him to leave, almost hopes that if he does, he will run. She can’t imagine there are many safe places for him, but almost anywhere would be better than under Galen’s care. 

The guard clears his throat, Kareen just manages to stop herself from snapping towards him as sharply as Mark does. He gives them both a half-nod. 

“If that’s settled, then I think we better go now. We don’t have much time.” His accent isn’t Komarran, or even Earth with a hint of Komarran from his parents. Kareen’s cold apprehensions freeze to ice. A Cetagandan accent, however soft, rings loud in Barrayaran ears.


	8. evans gambit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Gregor attends a small party

By the precise rubric Gregor holds onto for the times when things can start to seem dangerously meaningless, it had been a good day. 

The Emperor, as always, has an endless list of things to do, but it was Count Vorbarra that attends the ceremony celebrating the new history building being completed at the Imperial University. Since Count Vorbarra is also the Emperor Gregor, the security is raised accordingly, but he’s still there as the district’s Count, which saves the overall event from the atmosphere of Imperial Attention. 

He feels a difference, anyway, even if it’s hard to quantify. Which might be because of a lifetime practice sensing the pressure of a room or might be a sign of the onset of some deluded sort of insanity that will end up with him insisting on different names for different personalities. Technically, that’s already true, but he tries not to consider job titles the same as personalities and he hasn’t felt any need to pull out royal plurals outside of the official moments when they’re required. And, unlike certain other events where Count Vorbarra was honored to attend, there’s enough to draw his interest that he doesn’t need to work to pull himself away from brooding on all the potential mental breakdowns that could be haunting his future. 

Gregor tends to enjoy ceremonies at the University. He genuinely doesn’t mind most of the times he’s called on to witness various unveilings of new pieces of infrastructure or development or to get to walk around an exciting new ship, they’re all important facets of Barrayar’s present and hopeful future – if that new traffic system works out to the likely too hopeful predictions, he would be seriously tempted to offer to make a few new Vor – but this is one facet of Barrayar’s reputation that his forebearers had tended to hold in less than high regard. 

Not that former Emperor’s hadn’t thought that education was important, but many of them seemed to follow that first point with ‘so it should be carefully limited’. Which, one Dean had joked, in Gregor’s hearing if not directly to him, had at least spared them from the architectural attentions of Lord Dono (he would swear that Captain Illyan had almost looked wistful when reading over that comment). 

The Imperial University had survived a series of Emperors through a dedication to avoiding politics. Gregor sometimes wonders if it might have taken a different reputation if the Time of Isolation had ended later instead of the universe suddenly opening up in a suitably dramatic fashion, but whatever the reason, it has never really been the sort of flashpoint of youthful radicalism that can be found in colleges on, say, Komarr. Perhaps that’s still to come. 

As it is, while Gregor’s aware that there’s plenty of academic politics, his benign encouragement departments beyond the technical hasn’t yet been enough for them to be brought to his attention in person. They even try to keep most of the discussion of funding to other ears. It makes it practically relaxing to wander the airy building, not taking any canapes out of sensitivity to the nerves of the ImpSec agents carrying them about. It had also seemed the perfect event to invite Captain Galeni, considering his history. 

(“I’m glad things are going so well,” Miles had said, when he saw the guest list. 

“I’m glad to hear a lack of smugness,” Gregor had said, pointedly. 

But despite Miles’ smile, there had been rather less smugness than he would’ve expected. Gregor had decided to ignore the slightly troubled look.)

He thinks Captain Galeni has been enjoying himself. The look on his usually saturnine face when he’d spotted Miles and Professora Vorthys chatting cheerfully had been amusing, despite the undercurrent at exasperation at Miles’ unfortunate tendencies when it comes to dealing with people. Miles can be charming, cultivated to put people at ease even as he’s being operated on. He’s clever, competent and cares deeply. But there’s a brittleness to more than his bones. Bones can be replaced; other breaks can be harder to spot. 

Miles had joked once that he wanted to be dislike for himself, not for the general prejudice brought on by his appearance or reactions to his family. It hadn’t been much of a joke. Even if Gregor didn’t have the transcript of the conversation, he would’ve been able to guess just where Miles’ highhandedness would hit Captain Galeni’s, well deserved, pride the wrong way. Perhaps if there was something they had to work on together instead of at odds – but, no, ‘not all your allies will get along with each other, and you have to take care on trying to force them to do so’ had been one of his mother’s earliest lessons. 

“Miles was in her husband’s class. He took one of hers’, too, but Professor Vorthys was the one who invited him over.”

“Lord Vorkosigan took classes here?” The captain manages to sound professionally interested in any piece of information rather than strangled. Proof, if any was needed, that his rank is more than deserved. 

“Yes, he’s a graduate of this university, the same as you.” Another straight line that receives no comment, though Gregor can imagine a few. Galeni just looks a little glazed at the comparison. 

_Can’t all my friends get along, at least_. A question he’d never asked his mother, it hadn’t seemed relevant at the time, considering the number of friends he could list. It’s still not relevant. Galeni is there for duty. Always for duty. 

The problem is that Gregor likes Captain Duv Galeni. His dry understatement is habitual, but he has a flair for description. Gregor doubts that Galeni loves Barrayar, but reading his thesis, they might be able to agree on the Barrayar it’s possible to love. He loves Komarr but sees it clearly. Probably even more so than what can be seen in his comments to Gregor. He might not know why Gregor had chosen him, but he’s clearly doing his best to use the chance. It would be a disappointment if he wasn’t. 

Gregor tries not to linger on what Galeni would think about the full reason, as the captain talks with his old teacher. He doesn’t believe he’s been dishonest. And, besides, while the taste of honesty is appealing in its rarity, he has always known that many things are better kept secret. He knows about safety, and what compromises have to be made. That he’s drawn a line on what things he feels cannot remain secret, doesn’t mean he upbraids himself as a hypocrite for all that he still keeps to himself. He just isn’t quite sure yet where marriage falls on that line.

Captain Galeni had pointed out that it had been some years since he’s been on Komarr, and they’d both known haven’t spoken directly about certain of the… unusual circumstances around his upbringing. Neither of those have stopped him from being able to offer more of a glimpse into Komarran cultural than Gregor feels he can get from just reports, information on relationships and perspectives that he has wanted to learn more about. Just hearing him talk about Barrayar offers information for Gregor to think upon. 

The oligarchical families of Komarr had responded in their own ways to the Barrayaran conquest, but the differences between a family that adapted to the new rule and one that had fought against them don’t necessarily indicate that the children of such families wouldn’t still have more in common with one another than Komarrans of other classes. After all, look at the Vor. It had seemed a good test run. 

(“If things go wrong,” Miles had said, “at least it’s unlikely he’ll be a future in-law.” In the way Miles has of testing Gregor’s feelings on the potential satisfaction he might derive from violence.)

Marrying a Komarran seems like the reasonable compromise between a galactic and citizen of the Empire. Better than a compromise, as their child would, after all, rule both planets. It would be good if they were raised to understand them. And if the woman is like Duv – the prospect isn’t unappealing. 

Gregor doesn’t think he’s ever been in love, but he’s not seeking love. The important part is trying to establish a relationship where they won’t be unhappy. He needs someone he can work with. Someone who can live inside the lines that will be expected of them, even as they both work to push those lines further. Someone he can talk to, who he’ll respect, who won’t seem him only as the Emperor and never as the man. 

Of course, his imagined marriage is contingent on all the steps for change he’s planning on in between. On them all _surviving_ the changes to get to a time when a Komarran Empress will be more accepted. Which might be optimistic, but he can either plan for the future or he can believe that he’ll fail, and it’s too easy now that it’s so close to think too long about everything that could go wrong. 

Becoming a full signatory on the Interstellar Judiciary Commission’s agreements about the treatment of prisoners hadn’t been particularly difficult. Count Vorkosigan had done most of the work there, as Regent, and they’d already somewhat recognized the Commission’s authority through the complicated acceptance of some of Komarr’s former treaties, even when the Imperium hadn’t fully been a part. Gregor isn’t sure whether the point that Cetaganda was part of it had spurred on a Barrayaran desire to show themselves as equal to their old attempted conquerors in diplomacy, or as equals in avoiding getting caught breaking the standards, but he cares more for the consequences. The Interstellar Courts are open to them now. If someone could be found to press charges – well, that had taken longer but ImpSec hadn’t been able to cover up everything. He tries not to think about how easily careful choreography can go wrong, not on what’s been a good day. 

Of the distractions Gregor considers seeking out from that train of thought, an alert and the extremely blank expression of an ImpSec man bearing bad news is not one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next time: the Great Escape (??? to be determined) continues


	9. muller-schulze gambit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Kareen has several serious concerns

When Kareen had turned fifty, she had tried to make a list of what she wanted out of life. It was the sort of exercise Cordelia occasionally suggested, and it seemed the right time. At twenty-five, for quite a while after, she had never dreamed she would make it to fifty. She doesn’t imagine that she’ll get another full handful, but she could believe in as much a good forty. Another lifetime, in a way. It had taken a long time to come up with three items.

> 1\. Grandchildren. It’s something never to be said to Gregor, of course. Whatever some people believe, she’s sure he’s strong enough to hold in the face of a plea from her, but she knows him well enough to craft arguments that would carry the heaviest weight. She doesn’t want that between them. And she doesn’t want that _for_ him. Or for the next Lady Vorbarra. There have been enough Emperor’s with unhappy marriages to fill Barrayar’s need for such stories.
> 
> She knows why Gregor doesn’t want a wife from Barrayar. He needs someone who understands the role they’ll have to assume, the role he’s lived his life shadowed – and overshadowed – by, but he wants someone who’ll also see him as Gregor. She’s not sure he’s wrong that it would be hard to find that among the Vor class, especially as he also has a distaste for family trees too entwined with his, no matter that the uterine replicator can take care of some of the common problems from that. She’s not sure if he’ll find the woman _off_ Barrayar either, but he’s still young. The world has already changed so much from how it was when she was married.
> 
> Still, Kareen sometimes dreams of grandchildren. Part of it isn’t about them, or even Gregor. They would be proof of some final victory. Over Serg. Over Ezar. Overall the dark shadows that lurk in their history. When Gregor has children, he’ll be the father instead of the son. The feeling of that someday victory isn’t toppled by facts she can recite during the day. After all, Gregor has been her triumph, just as she was told he would be.
> 
> Gregor is her joy, as well, but that had been harder. It will be different for the next Lady Vorbarra. Uterine replicators, she hadn’t even known to dream of those in the days of her pregnancy. She doesn’t know if the pregnancy itself had been particularly bad, it’s so overwhelmed by everything surrounding it. The early pressure for a son (no galactic medicine to make that a surety, not for the princess), the endless invasions of her space and privacy by people who seemed to feel they had more of a right to the heir than the woman who was merely carrying him, and the endless stories of everything that could go wrong. Even if Serg had been – different, she doesn’t think it would’ve been easy. She mostly tries not to remember the first few days after Gregor’s birth. How much better to be able to welcome your baby in full health, with some dignity and control over the surroundings. How much safer, for the mother’s state not to affect the child.
> 
> 2\. Peace. ‘Peace’ might not be the right word, nor ‘retirement’, however much that one holds a certain amount of amusement. She’ll always be the mother to the Emperor, however much she might someday be able to retreat. And she doesn’t even want to disappear entirely, after all these years, she doesn’t mind all the ceremonies.
> 
> Peace of mind. Safety. Surety that those she loves are also safe and well. Something that even the Emperor can’t grant. That _especially_ the Emperor can’t grant, because that title will always draw trouble. Gregor will never be completely safe and secure, never free from the weight of three planets on his shoulders. His children will never be free from that either. The most that can be hoped for is ‘better’.
> 
> Not the fears of disappearances and secrets of Kareen’s childhood. Not the far too soon burden of Emperor or the disruption of rebellion that had marked Gregor’s. Something brighter, and freer. But there’s no full freedom from the name, from the duties. Serg is dangerous proof of that.
> 
> Kareen had wiped this idea away even more completely than the first. There’s a reason certain types of reflection should be avoided; it always ends in the same pointless spiral that achieves nothing and will bring only pain to her and others.
> 
> 3\. Travel. She had wanted to leave Barrayar, to leave the Empire altogether. Even now, many people have never left Barrayar. She wanted to travel to the ends of the Earth. She wanted to be a tourist. To be on planets that were untroubled by anything of Barrayar, and whose troubles would never reach her home. A more reasonably selfishness dream for a princess, she could joke.
> 
> A dream that an Emperor could fulfill. Something Gregor could do for her, something to grant her happiness, from a son that worries too much. She thinks he believes her when she tells him that he makes her happy, but it could still be a gift for both of them. 

Well, Fate laughs at the plans of Emperors and fools alike. Kareen reminds herself, again, that her hopes for travel had not included any dream of the sort of ‘adventure’ any self-respecting witch could twist into this current curse. And when she gets home, she can make sure Gregor accepts that this mess is in no way his fault. Which is why she must and will get home, because otherwise he’s sure to feel unreasonably guilty, and as that’s from her, it’s only right that she helps clear it away. 

At least, she thinks, doing her best to ignore the cramps in her legs, she’s unlikely to be called upon to deliver any inspirational speeches, as she has her doubts to how well that one would go over in this company. Hers would still likely be far more invigorating than anything Mark would come up with, judging from the listless ball he’s curled into now that the adrenaline spikes are fading away. He looks slightly grey; she wonders when he last slept. A doubtful an ally as he makes, she still would rather have him alert. Even if the change to casual Earther clothes reminds her again that he’s a good deal younger than he looks. 

Kareen remembers Gregor at fourteen. Kareen remembers _Miles_ at fourteen; a bad year that had led to an even worse one. She has no idea how the process of aging clones works, presumably there’s some sort of chemical and hormonal change, not just body shaping, to fit for the theft of their bodies, which is their common use on Jackson’s Whole. But that doesn’t answer what was done to Mark. Or whether early twenties are really that much more stable, with his background. Maybe it’s a good thing that he’s not driving. Or it would be, if it weren’t for the young man who is currently in charge of their journey. 

Kareen still isn’t sure if she made the right choice, if there was a choice. 

As soon as she’d heard the Cetagandan accent, things had started to make sense. Not _fully_ , as going to the Cetagandans for help in freeing your planet is the sort of premise that pops up in offensive ethnic jokes, but if you accept the insanity of the first principle, than there’s a type of logic to Ser Galen’s actions. Kareen knows there’s enough truth behind the wild rumors of Cetagandan mind control that it doesn’t matter what she, or Mark, is allowed to see or think now. And it’s far too easy to imagine the amount of damage they could do. That future was all to horrifyingly clear. 

So Kareen had accepted Mark’s fevered claim that Ser Galen had a deal with the Cetagandans, and this was their way out. Even if _he_ was the one currently with a Cetagandan. A Cetagandan with a weapon, and who had disabled several guards on their way to pick her up. This might be some sort of psychological trick to make her walk into the Cetagandans hold, while Ser Galen had some other wild plan, but she doesn’t see that she would have much luck resisting or been better off still in the cell. So far, there hasn’t been anything to disprove the claims of escape. 

Mark is unusually talkative as they move from flyer to blocky hotel room, drawing on another reservoir of energy. Showing off his planning. The half-boasting isn’t exactly undercut by the suspicion that he’s looking for approval in all his claims that he doesn’t need anyone else. 

“It was during the damn horse-riding lessons. I knew something was off about the instructor. Galen didn’t care. He didn’t – I know how to look at things. At what’s important. More than memorizing stupid little details. I decided to go back, to find out what was happening. I knew something was wrong.” He jerks his chin up, in defiance of something. Her, perhaps. Galen. The universe. 

“It was nice work,” the Cetagandan says, though his accent now is old Earth English. 

Mark glares at him, any possible appreciate for the praise overcome by a greater annoyance. “Why didn’t you use _that_ accent before? It could’ve saved us a lot of trouble with _her_.” 

“It’s better to start out with honesty, when you can,” he says serenely. Kareen suspects her skeptical look might match Mark’s. It’s been a wearing time for control. He shrugs. “It saved some questions.” 

“Saved those questions for later,” Kareen cuts in, before Mark can return to how exactly he used the trains. It _was_ good work, but they have to cut to the present, and the future. “This seems the time for slightly fuller explanations. Fuller introductions, as well.” 

The young man (and the emphasis on ‘young’ isn’t just a matter of her age) nods. “We should have some time.” He draws in a breath, as if about to plunge into something cold. “My name is Terence Cee, I can read minds. I was created by the Cetagandans, though my greatest debate is not to them.” 

“We’re going to destroy Jackson’s Whole,” Mark cuts in, leaning forward. 

Kareen looks from the apparently calm ‘mind reader’ to where Mark is trying to hold on to his dignity after almost falling onto the floor. She might have been too quick to assume herself in saner company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next: Gregor is *extremely* calm


	10. budapest gambit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Gregor is very calm

Gregor couldn’t – wouldn’t claim that he never gets angry, or even that he has perfect control over his temper when it is roused. He’s certainly said things he has regretted once he’s regained his calm. He has had to consider whether once choice or another had been truly thought out or the result of rash emotion. But he _does_ make those considerations, before he makes those choices fixed decisions. He has to hold on to his control, he has too much power to do anything else. Over the years since his majority, he thinks he’s displayed a decent ability to handle bad news and unexpected crises. He’s just collecting the facts, as calmly as he can. 

_The Emperor cannot hold onto grudges_ , his mother had told him, years before. Gregor had been old enough that he’d pointed out that _she_ she held onto grudges. She had laughed, a sound that always makes him feel a hundred feet tall, even when accompanied by her pushing a few strands of hair out of his face. 

“I do at that.” She had agreed. “I’m afraid I might have to blame the Vorbarra blood, we were always a family much taken with brooding over past slights, real or not. My father had a temper, but once let have its run, he was quick to heal and forget.” She had returned to her usual seriousness, before he had quite gotten over his surprise at an unprompted mention of the grandfather that she mentions even less often than the Emperor-his-grandfather. “But I’m not the Emperor, and I hope I have not let any grudges influence me unduly.”

“Lord Ev will be back at court, someday?”

“ _Unduly_ , Gregor, not unduly.” 

He had taken the lesson like he’s tried to take all the lessons she’s given him over the years. Gregor can feel whatever he wants, but the Emperor can’t. Not a good Emperor. 

It makes the expressions of the majority of the people in the room with him keep failing to hide another reason to rachet up the irritation he’s forcefully suppressing. He would worry more about what they think he’s going to do, if it weren’t for the quiet support of his Prime Minister. Aral Vorkosigan doesn’t need to speak legions with his silences, the mean enough even without putting words into them. 

“Commodore Destang’s report seems unusually elliptical.” Gregor says, calmly. “I take it you have a more detailed explanation of the situation?” 

Captain Illyan nods. “Yes, Sire. The chief military attaché was arrested. According to the messages from the Ambassador, he was being held for the illegal kidnapping and murder of Earth citizens. It seems that it made it on to the news cycle there. All rather… disturbing.”

“The part where he was caught,” the Prime Minister adds, not quite sotto voce. He and Illyan exchange dry looks. 

“Yes. Captain Turgen is a man of the old school. Not the sort who goes off unprepared and ends up caught by local police, no matter the how drastic the circumstances might be.” No one needs to say that he is exactly the sort of man who’s well prepared for kidnapping and murder. 

And ‘might be’, ha. Once, when Gregor was eight, he had slipped away from his guard, partially by accident, to try to buy a bar of the brightly colored ice cream generally not let past the strict gaze of the Imperial Residence cooks. The guard had been a moment away from setting off an alert saying that he’d probably already been kidnapped and quite likely murdered, before the outer perimeter security had called him. Admittedly, the Lieutenant had been young and jumpy, but he’s never met an ImpSec agent who’s grown less paranoid with time. 

Gregor is well aware of the flaws in ImpSec. His mother had always told him to think carefully about the difference between the reputation an organization preferred to project and the reality of human failure. And even before he had been old enough to be cleared to learn about other mistakes, Vordarian’s attempted takeover had always been a reminder that security only stretched so far. 

Later, his mother had told him that she hadn’t been sure if it was the right thing to do. To take away the myth of absolute protection and awareness the ImpSec appeared as in many people’s eyes. Children should have something to rely on. But there’s the tradeoff in the loss that would come when he realized the truth, however much it could’ve been patched up in his child’s eyes. He would wonder what safety she had believed in, only to find it false, but he can guess at too many. He thinks she made the right choice. Captain Illyan is very good, but the world hadn’t shaken under Gregor’s feet when he’d grown into seeing him as a man rather than a myth. 

A tired man who can’t control what happens on a planet as many jumps away as Earth, where they don’t even have a particularly important Embassy. Gregor reminds himself of that again as he waits for Illyan to continue. 

“The Ambassador believes that some of Captain Turgen’s actions were taken without leaving any sign, because he was worried about security breaches. Worries that seem justified, as his identity was uncovered at an unlikely speed.” 

“Yes, I was glad to see that he removed his uniform before kidnapping and murdering Earth citizens, Earth citizens who are also Komarran, Destang added in a note. Not that his lack of regulation attire has helped the Ambassador much in clearing up the mess, and, it appears, no hints about the whereabouts of my mother were revealed. The woman whose disappearance started his… search.” Perhaps not his most successful attempt at ‘calm’, but he’s pretty sure the hint of something that would likely be a wince on someone else isn’t because of his tone. 

“Yes, Sire. Accused of murdering. I believe that the circumstances make those particular charges unlikely. The London police put a struggle as a possible explanation for his state, but they were far less keen on that order of events than the reporters. A wild Barrayaran murdering his way through old enemies is apparently more exciting than investigating what the building was being used for, which the police are asking more questions about.”

“The joys of a free press,” Lord Padma murmurs. 

Gregor doesn’t rub his face. ‘Barrayaran military attaché murders his way through innocent Komarran refugees isn’t a headline he likes, even as far away as Earth, but perhaps its better his mother’s involvement – possible involvement – isn’t revealed yet. Not when there are still so many unknowns. The news of what happened on Earth might spark something, suggesting that the Emperor’s mother was taken by Komarran terrorists will definitely ignite trouble. And his mother might be the one facing retribution for that. 

“Poorly supported accusations of murder might prove useful.” To obscure the likely accurate accusation of illegal kidnapping and interrogation. “Destang agreed with the Captain’s assumption of Komarran terrorists, you think otherwise?” He nods at Lord Padma, whose resemblance to his cousin is highlighted by tension. 

“I believe Cetagandan involvement is a certainty,” Lord Padma says, frown growing slightly. “It’s harder to tell when it began. They could’ve leaped upon Captain Turgen’s capture to embarrass us, the ‘media reveal’ is a trademark, but while an eager soul might just have recognized him – no, I think it’s reasonable to believe they were there earlier. There’s been unusual activity in that sector. Along with the general… unrest we noticed at the funeral.” Lady Alys nods a decisive agreement with her husband’s assessment. 

“I didn’t think there were many signs of links between Komarran expatriate groups and Cetagandans.”

“There aren’t, that we’re aware of. There’s still a lot of bad blood, from the Conquest and the Revolt. There’s even some from the invasion of Barrayar. But desperation can cloud minds, and the Cetagandans are usually happy to take advantage. They aren’t happier with us after Vervain.” 

Gregor nods, and leans back slightly as the discussion moves into what the various possible amounts of Cetagandan involvement could mean. 

They don’t even know for sure that his mother had been kidnapped by either group. Or where she might be now. If she’s anywhere. He suspects that they’re stepping carefully around the subject, but he can’t bring himself to drag it back, just yet. Not when he knows the answer to ‘what are we doing’ and it feels like ‘not enough’. Maybe it isn’t enough. Should he do more? Would he do more, if it were anyone else? What must she be thinking? 

Because she has to be thinking something. The alternative is… unthinkable. 

Princess-Dowager Kareen Vorbarra isn’t his only family. Miles and Aunt Cordelia. Count Vorkosigan. Lord Padma, Lady Alys and their brood. A collection of more distant cousins, though the closeness of so many high Vor families and the lack of the dangerous royal family element makes those bonds feel different. What would he do if any of them were taken? What would they want? 

But he knows that’s a false equivalency. Even for Miles. Even for Aunt Cordelia and Count Vorkosigan, who were pillars of his childhood. However, much he’s grown to like Lady Alys’ clear eyes and Lord Padma’s warm acceptance of family (even though he suspects Lord Padma of being a recipient of one of his mother’s carefully measured grudges, but he doesn’t know if it’s personal or a relic of older complications around Prince Xav; Mad Emperor Yuri’s murderous pruning of the family tree had almost completely removed some grudges that had been carefully cultivated for generations) – there’s no point in even pretending to measure them against his mother. His childhood surety and support. A councilor and teacher and the woman he owes everything, but with whom it’s never a debt. 

She had kissed him on the forehead before she left, both of them free, at least in that moment, from the traces of tension that had grown over the last few years. She had said that she loved him. That she was proud of him. That he’s a man who can stand on his own feet but knows he doesn’t have to do so alone. It had been a good goodbye for a long trip, he can’t stand the thought of thinking on it as a good farewell. 

He owes it to her to be the best Emperor he can, but that can’t be one who could accept the idea that she’s gone and go on. An Emperor can’t get too angry, but he can’t believe an Emperor can’t love.


	11. grob attack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Kareen really doesn't like having her mind read

Kareen is further away from Barrayar than she had ever truly imagined possible, whether back when she dreamed of being anywhere else or even when actually planning her trip. Maybe it was because of her long-ago dreams of different worlds that in the midst of practicalities, there had still been a certain dreamlike quality to it all. On the ship leaving Doroteyar, she hadn’t been able to completely suppress the giddy feeling of having made some sort of secret escape. She had wondered what Paul, still Sergeant Stiller then, had thought of the expression when he’d caught her eye. They still haven’t found his or Dima’s body. 

Lady Kareen had become Princess Kareen, like a crab moving from one shell to another. A shell that, once inhabited, didn’t move. The lady sits within the fortifications built by others. No, perhaps not entirely immobile. But it would be Princess - _Empress_ Vorbarra who might travel to another planet within her husband-the-Emperor’s Empire. Or her son-the-Emperor. Not Kareen. 

What had that meant to her, then? Had she seen it as a trap? Had she seen it as freedom from the confines of Lady Kareen? Had she not thought anything of it, ingrained as it was in her understanding of what her future would be? It’s hard to remember, now, more than half a life later and with so many memories still better left untouched. On Barrayar, during the Time of Isolation, ‘terraforming’ had meant little more than a slash and burn, nothing like the delicate art of the bogs of Komarr. Was that destruction change, or just survival? Some years ago, the metaphor of the cities the Cetagandans had destroyed might come to mind before that. Maybe this is progress. 

Terrence Cee might know. He might even know if Kareen’s homesick, or simply not used to change and unsettled at being so far from Gregor. She had thought she would never be able to answer the question to her own satisfaction, but perhaps he’ll produce something pulled from parts of her mind she isn’t even aware of. 

Kareen isn’t sure when, precisely, she had started to believe. Somewhere between Mark’s passionate insistence and Terrence’s calm answers and the arrival of one of the stranger meals she’s had, the denial had turned into a fear that, she bitterly reflects, she supposes even her most composed expression can’t entirely hide. She glances at Cee, whose assembling another cracker with meat and cheese. Mark looks glazed. Considering how many toasts a proper dinner generally started off with, that’s another area of his training that, in the most generous assumption possible, hadn’t been completed. Miles is lightweight, but he’s always _aware_ of his own limits. She tries to imagine Mark pretending to be Miles pretending to be a few cups in. It’s almost a comedy, if you don’t look at the human cost. 

On the other hand, she might not have been entirely fair in assuming Ser Galen had been the one to turn first to the Cetagandans. There are still plenty of silences in the ‘longer version’ of Cee’s story, who exactly had gone to Galen and whether the Cetagandans had been reacting to the Komarrans or to Cee remains unclear when she focuses on the slight gaps in his tale. He hadn’t clarified, despite her thoughts. How much of them can he hear? How much is he just choosing not to respond to? She drinks, trying to push away the claustrophobic fear that is just waiting in the shadow of her thoughts. 

Over the years, there have been thoughts that Kareen considers potentially dangerous. Sometimes it’s better not to question things, even inside your head, to make absolutely sure they can’t slip out. Then there are the thoughts that can sap at the will or destroy hope or otherwise damage the cause and so have to be disciplined. But her thoughts _had_ been her own. Even at the very worst moments. _Especially_ at some of the worst moments, when she might have faced accusations of being a traitor in thought, but she had known that the words were born from others’ paranoia. Cee – what Cee represents, makes her want to try claw her way through the walls. 

Familiar faces that belong to strangers. People who can read your mind. It’s like a cavalcade of nightmares come to life, not all her own. Kareen has had plenty of bad dreams circling the theme of the familiar becoming monstrous or even just not knowing her, she hadn’t dreamed of psychics. She supposes that there might be some irony then in the difference of actually dealing with Mark and Cee. If there is, she’ll be much better able to appreciate it a long way away from anyone who can dip into her thoughts. 

“It was easy to see the darkness in people’s souls,” Cee says, gaze distant. “To focus on cruelty and deception. It was easy, too, to see myself as… different than human. I was used to being regarded as such. I used poor mirrors to decide the truth of what – who I am.” There’s a slight twitch of a smile, as if in unconscious response to some memory. “Recently, I’ve been trying to see things through different eyes.”

“I’m certainly glad of your help,” Kareen says, trying to avoid darker trains of thought. Mirrors, indeed. “And glad that you don’t see your debt owed to House Bharaputra.” The thought of a mind reader working for Jackson’s Whole is less horrifying than the thought of the Cetagandans possessing him, but only on a planetary scale. “But you can’t expect to take down Jackson’s Whole through assassination. They have guards. You might kill a few, but in the end the result will be your deaths, and the trade still going.” She means it, though Cee might have grounds to wonder if she wouldn’t truly consider _his_ death not the worst trade. Or maybe that’s unfair. 

“They deserve it,” Mark says.

“That’s not the question.” She doesn’t disagree, at least, not necessarily, but there’s a price to being even the most justified assassin. “If you want to change things, that’s not the way.”

“Funny sentiment, coming from a Barrayaran.”

“One you should listen to, coming from a Barrayaran. Think what death has won us on Komarr.” This isn’t the time to get into the complexities of Emperor Dorca’s unification or Emperor Ezra’s reign, where death _still_ hadn’t solved problems and had caused plenty of new ones, she mentally adds for anyone listening. “Maybe if you were trying to fully conquer – but you’d be even less likely to survive that, and, besides, you would just end up trying to solve different issues of governance while the business would, in all likelihood, just find somewhere else to set up.”

“What would you suggest?” Cee asks. He doesn’t have Mark’s edge, but then, she suspects his alignment to Mark’s plan has more to do with some desire to die for a cause more than thinking about it with full clarity. She heard the silences the linger around why he left Cetaganda and what he’d been doing on Jackson’s Whole. They’re both so young. 

She rubs her head. “We wouldn’t object to the clone business being shut down. You were trained to infiltrate. Get secrets. Money. Beating them at their own game might be the only way to succeed in stopping them from setting up the board again.” 

“Barrayar would support that?” Cee asks, even more focused. Mark looks up again, he had listened to her stories.

“If it looked like you were having some success, perhaps. With a greater possibility, considering who you are.” Now, more then ever, there’s no point in being anything but honest. “You’ll get far worse from every side if you try to use me as collateral,” she doesn’t stop her tone from growing a bit pointed. _Knowing_ that it was dangerous to try to keep hold of her didn’t necessarily translate into sensible, or useful, action. Power and danger are both heady feelings, she can’t discount the chance one will be mistaken for the other. 

“Who we are seems more likely to attract assassins.”

“Or worse,” Mark adds darkly. 

Cee nods acknowledgement, gaze still steady. “Returning you to the Embassy is close to handing you to Cetagandans. Your sector security would have us killed to clear up possible problems.” Not a risk either of them has reason to take, but a Barrayar gripped by internal chaos isn’t particularly desirable for someone whose set against the Cetagandans, even if he has no reason to like Barrayar. The Cetagandans might not risk making an actual move on the Embassy here, even with the security chief in the hospital, but there is a risk – and a risk to them to be connected with her if anything does happen. 

Kareen has a duty to keep herself safe, because she’s not the only one who will suffer if she does. When does risk turn to reckless endangerment? She needs to get back home. The plan might be a bad one, but she can hope she’ll have the chance to form far better ones later, once it no longer matters. 

Cee rubs his head, looking from her to Mark. She tries not to think on that. 

“If you have a way off the planet, I have another route. One that could serve all of us.” 

“Beta Colony,” Cee seems lost for a moment, another of his lapses into memory. 

“Do you have a way?” 

Cee pauses again, before he finally nods. “And you can send that letter tomorrow.” 

Kareen is not looking forward to traveling with a psychic. Mark looks around, confused by more than just having drunk too much. She hopes her smile doesn't show her discomfort. It's not for _him_ , after all. 

"Your grandmother would be glad of one grandchild with no interest in going to Barrayar."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry its been a while, being sick almost all of February was not in my writing plans; sort-of-epilogue should be up by Friday


	12. Draw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which there's an epilogue/interlude

5.

Duv can trace the source of his feelings of foreboding. The tension in Vorpatril that he tries to hide under his usual chatter. The distance in the Emperor, seen at a distance. A pattern of movement in the building that spoke to _something_ that wasn’t being told to _him_. The fear he’s sure every Komarran feels when they open the door to see Imperial Security, even after years of being _part_ of Imperial Security. 

He remembers the tension in his mother’s hand on his shoulder, as the men had loomed in the doorway, knowing before she knew for sure. They had produced only corpses. 

Perhaps this is a sort of miracle. A dead man brought back to life. Probably back to life, as he’s vanished again. The questions and delivery are – no, he can’t say ‘almost kind’, but when you know how to read ImpSec –

His father would be displeased to know that he probably hasn’t gotten in the way of Duv’s career. Not yet, at least. Though he does wonder when he’ll get his next promotion. It’s better to think about the dangers this could hold to his rank, instead of thinking about why he had thought his past could be sealed or of Samuel dying alone or of his father existing out in the universe. 

Duv’s father is alive, and there’s a weight on his chest he doesn’t understand. He wonders how long ImpSec has known. He tries not to even look at a picture of Komarr. 

4.

“Kostolitz, get some sleep.”

Sergey can feel the exhaustion creeping up on him, the slow burn still not yet pushed over to the bubbling lightheadedness that foretold being too tired even to sleep. A light shift, practically, as he can’t use a Timer when he might be called back. He tells himself he’s not swaying as he makes his way towards his cabin. 

Ship duty, ha. Well he can’t say the Academy didn’t teach him about preforming his duties without enough sleep. Or teach him that he shouldn’t if there’s any other choice. It’s the ‘choice’ part that’s the problem. He collapses in his bunk, ignoring Pavel, who’s trying to grab onto his own last minutes of rest, anyway.

At this point, he would prefer it if he was being singled out, the victim of some superior officer with a taste for the old ways of breaking a man down. At least there could be an escape from that. At least there wouldn’t be the atmosphere of creeping dread leeching away at them as much as the long shifts. 

It’s easy to know why some men have been muttering about sabotage, even if he does his duty and cracks down on anything in his hearing. Even if the whispers of curses are both worse and more embarrassing. The increasing number of accidents have a cause far more obvious than the supernatural: one tired mistake makes longer hours for the rest of them mean more mistakes. But that doesn’t explain the first wave of trouble. Damn doctors. And damn the reinforcement that hasn’t arrived yet. 

Sergey rolls over. He’s a soldier, he should be able to fall asleep in an instant. He needs to sleep so he can wake and keep things going. It’s not his role to wonder about war. 

3\. 

Elena studies her host from behind her cup of coffee. After four years, she usually isn’t overwhelmed by simply being in the presence of Elizabeth Naismith, even after a day when she read an article by her for class. 

Elizabeth can be an engineer, and Countess Vorkosigan’s mother, and the kind woman who invites her over for snacks and conversation all the same. None of the identities consume or let down another. In Elena’s first weeks on Beta Colony, when she had been so full of claustrophobia and homesickness and confusion about a culture she wasn’t sure she’d ever understand, and wasn’t sure she wanted to, Elizabeth Naismith had been a rock. It had reminded Elena of Countess Vorkosigan, in a comforting way. 

Now, Elena knows the emergency drills and wears earrings without embarrassment and complains about politics with the rest of her class, and the look in Elizabeth’s eyes is a slightly more alarming type of familiar. Countess Vorkosigan’s straightforward plotting looks just like her mother’s and is just as hard to guess what it’s about. 

Ed, who is always happy to chat with Elena about what’s been going on, without any need for her to return gossip in kind, told her that there’s been a bit of an odd parade going through, even for the Naismiths. Four years aren’t enough for Elena to find casual discussion of… personal relationships exactly normal, but she doesn’t think it’s Barrayaran prudery that makes her doubt Elizabeth’s ‘young man’ is, well, what’s implied. For one thing, that sort of thing (she tries not to add ‘horrifyingly’) has never stopped Elizabeth from inviting her over to brunch before. And her taste doesn’t run to young blonds, no matter what times the handsome young man was seen visiting. Besides, Elena tracks more rumors than Ed’s. 

Elena misses Barrayar, she does. She misses the freedoms she hadn’t been aware could be removed until she had experienced Beta’s closed environment. She misses being part of a community she understood entirely, even the parts she hadn’t liked. She misses her father and her old friends. Beta Colony has its own flaws and joys, and she’s not sure if she wants to embrace them entirely. She doesn’t know if she can go back. Elizabeth had been the one who told her there was no going back, there’s only forward, even if she returns to Barrayar. After all, Barrayar hasn’t been holding still either. It had been Elizabeth who had helped her hunt down news sources that were most likely to mention Barrayar, and who talks about the concerns of a world most people here don’t even think of. They both have family there, after all. 

Elena takes another drink of coffee. They’ve both seen the patterns of movement in sectors of interest to Barrayar. If one of them can do something about it – Elena is Barrayaran, she knows when not to ask questions. 

2.

Foss looks like he’s about to explode when he slams into their watching post. He’s not a big man, really, but that doesn’t matter when he’s the will of the boss holding their contracts. Just have to take whatever comes. Cyn fights the urge to slide down in his chair to escape their ‘supervisor’s’ furious gaze, Archie seems unmoved though Theo is staring at his keyboard as if that will stop anyone from noticing him. 

“You’re telling me there’s nothing on where that fat little shit vanished to? He’s not damn inconspicuous, even our normal crowd of freaks doesn’t hold many mutants.” Cyn wonders what the guests would think of that description, though he has to admit that when it comes to their colorful and, importantly, extremely wealthy, patrons, he doesn’t entirely disagree with Foss’ scorn. Not that he would ever say.

Archie shrugs, “Nothing from this bay, boss.”

Foss snarls, before turning and stomping away. Cyn thinks that even he might be a little intimidated by Archie. Of course, that can mean lashing out just as often as it means pretending not to back down, but it’s useful right now.

Archie doesn’t lose his easy expression when Foss is out of earshot, but he does lean forward to start typing things in. “He’ll be back. Once he’s gone through the other stations.” Theo ventures finally, still not looking up. 

Archie smirks. “Then we had better work fast, hadn’t we, boys?”

Cyn’s hands are still shaking, but he thinks again of what the too knowing blond ‘Naismith brother’ had said on the first day. And of the files delivered last night. 

“I think we can manage that.”

He thinks he might be able to manage a lot more, for hope. 

1.

After the security briefings and ImpSec trying not to shout and discussion of plans and the Emperor’s review and the new information on Cetagandan movements and the orders and the requests and the three people who just have one last thing and –

In a moment that’s not _after_ , because there’s always something more, Gregor leans his head on his mother’s shoulder and lets her hold him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next story: 'On the Trial of Prince Serg'; amid the worry of another war with Cetaganda, vicious accusations are made against the brave, martyred Prince Serg, luckily he has his noble son-the-Emperor there to defend his reputation. 
> 
> But there will be a bit of a break before I start putting that installment up.


End file.
